Circle of Wagons: The Gospel of Madness (Book 4 of 6) (The Gospel of Madness - (A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Series))

by Georg Bruckmann

  But for now, the priority was to free them and lead them out of the direct sphere of influence of the degenerates. There were too many to hide them in the bunker. He had to get them out of town someplace safe and sound for a while.

  Rolf didn't yet know where this place would be, but he knew it was somewhere. That it just had to exist.

  Under his dark clothes, his armored vest and his black winter jacket, he was now sweaty wet from carrying his bags. His heart raced, and his pulse sounded in his ears.

  He had to come down.

  Calm down.

  Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to hear what was going on around him. So he moved slowly through the streets, always careful to stay in shade and in the hard to see corners. Actually it was not very far to the building in which the prisoners had been accommodated. Rolf estimated that once they were freed, it would take them about fifteen minutes to reach the bags he had prepared.

  Provided, of course, that they were physically able to move quickly.

  About five hundred meters before Rolf would reach the prisoners in their building, he left the streets and continued his way through the abandoned houses and over the roofs of Frankfurt. This way it took him much longer, of course, but he wanted to be sure to have the advantage of surprise on his side.

  Maria

  Abele withdrew from her, and when she shortly thereafter from the sounds she heard came to the conclusion that he had stowed his slack dick back in his pants, she slowly rose. His juice ran down the inside of her thighs as she turned to him. Waiting to receive her reward.

  He hesitated.

  She could see what he was thinking.

  You stupid bitch. I can do whatever I want with you. Anytime. Why should I reward you for something that I - all of us - deserve anyway?

  Again she gave him her smile and looked shamefaced to the ground.

  Yeah, she thought. You can have me anytime you want, that's right. But only when I want you to, will you feel like the best, most potent and strongest lover in the world. And that's what you need, kiddo, isn't it?

  She had rewarded each of his thrusts with pleasurable, voluptuous noises. She hadn't even been particularly strained, because she had actually come.

  Her trance - her gift.

  She hadn't seen or felt him. It hadn't been him who had taken her. She hadn't just slept with a blonde, whip-swinging asshole, but - at least that's what she thought - with an idealized, dreamed-up mix of three American actors.

  Actor.

  Inside, she snorted. Was there anything more irrelevant these days than an actor from a bygone era?

  Although - am I not an actress myself?

  Her whole body still hurt where he had pinched, bitten and squeezed her. Especially her tits. The more her trance faded, the more she felt the pain. She ignored it as best she could and smiled at the blonde boy again.

  She could see from his facial expressions that his thoughts were changing. Got milder. He turned to the second guard and shrugged his shoulders apologetically. Then he pointed to one of the three backpacks leaning against the wall of the basement room behind the second guard. The second guard sighed, as if to say: Really, man? Are you sure about this?

  Then he began to rummage in the backpack, revealing three shriveled apples and some shrink-wrapped dried meat. He gave it to Abele, who gave it to Maria.

  "Thank you," she said quietly.

  Then she withdrew from the middle of the room back to the other prisoners. Some, they knew, had observed the sex, and some had tried to ignore the groans and the cries of pleasure and stared at the floor.

  With her teeth she opened the wrapper of the dried meat and tore it into strips. She stuck one of the stripes in her mouth and held it with her teeth, others she gave together with one apple each to an old woman, Herta, who consisted only of skin and bones, to her husband, who hardly looked better, and to a seventeen-year-old boy, who nearly had been beaten to death the day before.

  "I don't want this. Not from you," he mumbled.

  He took it anyway.

  Good boy. You'll learn that pride can't be eaten.

  None of the recipients had thanked her. But she didn't expect that either. It wouldn't be quick to get a place in their hearts.

  She squatted on the floor in a corner and embraced the knees with her arms. For a while she stretched her pelvic floor and tried to get Abele's seed out of her as quickly as possible.

  Finally she felt a leaden, deafening tiredness take possession of her. This often happened after a trance.

  She closed her eyes.

  Then she opened it again.

  A noise had been heard from outside.

  Someone had ripped open the exit door.

  Viktor

  He was still not sure if Christiano had not exaggerated when he told him about the Ghost. But even if it was all exaggerated, it was impressive. In a few weeks, a single man had killed forty or fifty of Christiano's people. In this time they had not succeeded to bring the guy in or to the hunt him down despite all their efforts. And what was even more important: this Ghost had managed to lower the morale of Christiano's impressively large army.

  Viktor grinned. That's what Christiano got out of it. Viktor was sure that this ghost would not have succeeded with his people.

  That's what happened when you assimilated every single weak soul into your troop. If you bet on mass instead of class.

  "Imagine that, Lüders. There were even deserters in Christiano's heap of pigs."

  "Damned little piss-cunts," Lüders replied, moving through Frankfurt at night with Viktor.

  Ten more of Viktor's people were around them at irregular intervals. They were on the roofs and in the alleys, moving just as this "Ghost" did according to Christiano's stories. Viktor was confident.

  That's all he would need. Basically, he didn't even need them.

  I could kill that little shithead on my own.

  But then, however, it might take a little longer.

  And that wasn't in Viktor's preference. He wanted to tick off the task that Christiano had assigned to him, the task that Christiano should have done himself, as quickly as possible and then move on.

  Yeah, sure, Christiano was really worried and almost scared. Nevertheless, Viktor knew very well that he would not have to reckon with gratitude but with problems as soon as he had handed over the head of the Ghost to Christiano. He had thought long and hard and weighed the pros and cons. It had been a close decision that he had taken his best man with him on the ghost hunt instead of leaving him with the others at the station for safety's sake.

  Only the desolate condition of Christiano's people, their lack of discipline, had ensured that he believed that the remaining riders in his cavalry could take care of themselves. Moreover, he always felt safe with Lüders at his side. They had all left their horses in the station.

  Well, almost all of them.

  Four riders waited on the station forecourt for the signal of the whistle that Viktor wore around his neck.

  They all had these whistles, but Viktor's whistle was a little higher pitched and more shrill than the others. This ensured that even in the chaos of a battle or a hunt a certain hierarchy within the various possible signals was maintained.

  At the moment they were moving in a broad line through the city of ruins. Slowly they searched the area northwest of the station. According to Christiano's tales, the spirit was on the move every night or at least almost every night. He knew the area like the back of his hand. Therefore, they did not bother to search the large ruins, the vacant apartments, government buildings and offices individually. Actually, they weren't hunting - they wanted to be found. Their dispersion increased the chances that the spirit would find them - or rather one of them.

  If someone should encounter him, he would use the whistle and the others would come to his aid and close the circle around the ghost. Ideally, however, they would discover the man before he could attack. Each of them was equipped with a bow or crossbow, and Viktor
knew that his people could handle their weapons. In contrast to Christiano, he interpreted the Cardinal's commandments more loosely and allowed them to carry modern versions of those weapons. In the relatively cramped space of the destroyed city, they were almost as dangerous as a man with a rifle - and much harder to spot.

  No muzzle flash.

  No bang.

  They came to an intersection, and Lüders told Viktor to stay behind. Carefully Lüders stretched his head around the corner. Then he let his leader know that the air was clear.

  "We'll come straight to the house where we've accommodated our fuckdogs," Lüders informed him. He called their prey fuckdogs because that was the way he liked to take them. Viktor himself hardly ever forced himself upon the prisoners. He liked it better when his women were on the same wavelength as him. Nevertheless, he recognized the need for hierarchies, and he always visualized his place in them in the upper third related to the big picture. He was a leader, but he didn't know the ambition and the desire for prestige that Christiano had.

  He was about to answer to Lüders, when the man cried out, staggered a few steps, leaned against the wall and finally collapsed.

  Viktor could see his lips moving, how he reached under his fur cape and how his hand came out blood-stained from under it again. When he died, Lüder's face expressed more astonishment than panic or pain. For a fraction of a second Viktor was fascinated by this fact, then, when bullets hit the asphalt close to him and he saw muzzle flashes shining from one of the roofs opposite - high above, almost outside his field of vision - he managed to shake off this fascination and finally set himself in motion.

  While he was running, he blowed into his whistle. Two seconds later, confirming whistling signals sounded from all around Viktor, and from far away he could hear the rattling of horse hooves.

  His people reacted.

  They'd be protecting him.

  Well, that's what they'd do once they found him - which could take a while. For the moment he had to take care of himself and get out of the line of fire.

  It worked. We brought out the ghost.

  He didn't really know whether to be happy or not.

  Notwithstanding this fact, he pulled an arrow out of the quiver on his back and laid it on the string. He had to balance the weapon advantage of the ghost. For a bow-shot the muzzle flashes had still been a little too far away, even if he had an excellent weapon.

  Viktor lunged around the corner and ran towards the house where they were hiding the prisoners.

  It didn't rain, and the empty city and the ruins of the building had a different effect on Viktor than on the night of her arrival, but he recognized the house immediately.

  They must have heard my whistle signal in there too ...

  A second later, just before he reached the house, this suspicion was confirmed. The front door opened, and three of his people, looking around suspiciously stepped out into the street. One of the figures became aware of Viktor, lifted the bow and pulled the string, but immediately lowered the weapon again when she recognized his leader.

  "Lüders is dead! The ghost's on the roofs. Spread out and secure the entrance! You...", Viktor pointed to the left, to the one who had been after him.

  "... to the roof. See that you get a field of fire. We'll get that cowardly sniper!"

  "Yeah, that's fine, but what kind..."

  Already he wanted to turn around to obey Viktor's command, but his face disappeared into a cloud of blood and what was left of him fell over as he fell.

  Again, Viktor didn't hear any shots.

  Or wasn't there a muffled pop?

  Yes, it was.

  Viktor was sure.

  Either the ghost had now come closer by now, or the silencer of his weapon became ineffective over time.

  Viktor now slowed down his crouched run as he reached the two remaining guards and swung to the left to get to safety and into the house. While he was storming past the two baffled ones, who still didn't seem to have fully understood what was happening - how could they have, they had been here all the time and had heard nothing of Christiano's tales or of the mission that the higher-ranking degenerate leader had imposed on Viktor - he roared:

  "Spread out among the floors! Do you idiots now know what kind of ghost I mean?"

  They didn't answer Viktor anymore. Instead of their voices, all that could be heard was the falling of their bodies and the soft crackling of the rock torn out of the street by the bullets.

  His people had set up two small oil lamps in the stairwell, and when Viktor realized that he was making a perfect target for the ghost, he swirled around, panting at the door and slamming it shut.

  With his back he sank down on it - and not a second too soon.

  There, where his head had just been, the wire mesh reinforced frosted glass and the thick wood surrounding the small panes embedded in the door were pierced by at least six small caliber projectiles.

  The ghost had shot itself warm.

  He'll come here ..., Viktor thought, as he crouched away from the door, noticing at the same time that further back in the hallway a cellar door has been opened, allowing the guard to see his tense face.

  He wanted to know what was going on upstairs.

  Viktor told him.

  They would give the ghost a reception that he would not survive - if Viktor's people - those on foot and on horseback - did not catch him before.

  Rolf

  The angle had been too steep. He'd killed four of them. One had escaped. But he'd get him soon. What worried him were the whistle signals, which were high and shrill and echoed a thousand times all around him through the extinct city.

  Screaming banshees.

  Death spirits.

  As quietly as he could, he moved down the stairwell. As he walked, he let the magazine slide out of the MP he had used to kill the four degs, turned it over, and snapped in the one he had taped upside down to the initial mag. The old one wasn't empty yet, but Rolf wanted to avoid having to reload in the middle of battle. He still had a second MP, but that fraction of a second that would take to release one weapon and grab the other, which dangled by its carrying strap around his neck, by the handle, could decide about life and death.

  In addition to the two sub-machine guns, he had two handguns with nine rounds each, which he carried on holsters on his hip, and his shortened pump-gun. In the pockets of his winter jacket he had stuffed several loads of C4, some of which he had connected with ten-second timers and some with mechanical detonators. Such a load would be enough to open a door or tear a hole in a wall. He only hoped that he would not have to use them near the prisoners - for everything and everyone behind a blown up wall or door was in immediate danger of death.

  This one degenerate, who had escaped him a few seconds ago, had disappeared into the house. Rolf did not think that the angry volley he had sent after him had caused any damage.

  He stopped two floors above street level to peer out of a stairwell window at the house opposing. The glass pane had been destroyed at some point, and the sharp-edged splinters still in the window frame prevented him from pushing his head out.

  He listened.

  Nothing was heard for several seconds. Then remote horse hooves, which seemed to quickly come closer and again this high, sinister whistle.

  Then the quieter sound that an arrow makes when it cuts through the air.

  It came closer too.

  Just a lot faster.

  So fast that Rolf was hit by the projectile at the moment he wanted to jump to the side.

  The force with which the missile collided with his armored vest was not comparable to that which a bullet would have had, but nevertheless he took two involuntary steps back. The arrow had not penetrated the armor-plate in his vest, but the tip had got stuck in the plastic that wrapped the plate.

  Quickly Rolf moved even further away from the window, one landing further down the stairs. The arrow dangled from him, and he reached for it. With an angry movement, he tore it fr
ee.

  You have to be more careful. Fucking idiot.

  Plastic shaft.

  No real feathers.

  Hunting tip.

  Razor-sharp.

  Now broken.

  This was a pre-war arrow.

  Machine made.

  A commercial, professional product.

  No tip of bone or plastic sharpened on stone.

  Different league.

  The arrow had collided with the armor plate, the razor-sharp tip had deformed and got caught in the fabric of the vest.

  This indicated that it had been shot horizontally. Had it come from above or below, at a steeper angle, he would most likely have slipped off the plate - either upward, in Rolf's face, or down, away from him.

  Second floor, then.

  Another flight of stairs down.

  Another stairwell window.

  This one was still intact. Rolf stopped a few meters away from it on the penultimate step. They couldn't see him here yet. He was sure the archer had that window in his sights. Rolf took a gel block of C4 out of his jacket pocket and activated the time fuse. No light flashing every second and no piezzo beeping every second. But the counter counted, and nothing more could interrupt it, Rolf knew that. He counted four seconds in his mind, then shot a short burst of fire into the stairwell window, jumped forward and threw the deadly explosive. Once it had left his hand, he threw himself aside, not allowing himself the luxury of watching the trajectory of the charge with his eyes.

  And he was right to do so. The arrow merely slit open the left sleeve of his down-lined winter jacket and got stuck behind Rolf in the brittle plaster of the stairwell. Rolf hurried down the staircase as he continued to silently count.

  Four.

  Three.

  Somewhere he had lost two seconds.

  The explosion was deafening and bright, dirty fiery light flooded the stairwell and hurt his eyes.

  Maria

  The vibrations of the explosion propagated, running through the brickwork to the basement slab, where Maria huddled next to the other prisoners and drove right into her body. She suppressed a frightened outcry. This degree of self-control was by no means possible for all of them. Panting, eyes opened in horror. The prisoners exchanged frightened and questioning glances. All of a sudden there was dust in the air, consisting of countless particles that had come loose from the ceiling and also rolled into the room from under the door gap.