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

by Georg Bruckmann

  They were just attacked, that was clear.

  By whom?

  On what purpose?

  The dust in the room had settled somewhat by now and she could see that some of the other prisoners had now also raised their heads and looked in her direction as if they expected her to comment on the situation.

  Forget that. Assholes.

  Upstairs a window clanked, then again fully automatic fire and someone screamed. Not for a moment. Not a frightened death cry, but long and persistent, as if someone was suffering inhuman pain. They all knew what it sounded like when someone was suffering inhuman pain and also how it felt, because they all had already felt such pain in their own bodies.

  Again for several seconds silence, which was interrupted only now and then by whistling signals. Maria had also often heard these whistling signals. When they sounded, the pig gang was on the hunt, and for the prisoners this meant that they had better keep quiet as mice if they did not want to run the risk of being punished to the death.

  Then barked orders.

  She recognized Viktor's voice and Abele's.

  Then more shooting.

  More screams.

  The shooting stopped.

  Something or someone fell to the ground, crashing. Abeles' voice again:

  "Stop! No. I..."

  Then two deafening shots in close succession, louder, much louder and deeper than the previous ones. Maria had to blink when the sound waves reached her eardrum and ducked away from the door. That was a different weapon. No handgun. Nothing with silencers. A rifle or something.

  Mia - it had to be Mia who screamed like a pig, shrill and wordless like a dying animal. Two seconds later, a new, incredibly loud bang reflected from the concrete walls of the stairwell, and the screeching stopped. Someone cursed. A voice Maria didn't know.

  "Fucking piece of shit!"

  Then a wheeze, as if a man were lifting something heavy, then something big rumbled down the stairs and rolled a bit more. Maria peeked through the crack of the door. A dirty hand was right in front of the door in her field of vision. She couldn't see any more, except that this hand was missing the little and the ring finger.

  Then footsteps came closer. The metallic click when a weapon was loaded through. A bullet casing fell to the ground and clattered away. Then the door was opened and there stood someone whom Maria had never seen before.

  Rolf

  "Come on, you lame-ass idiots! Up you go! We don't have much time. We've got to get out of here before more of those bastards arrive!"

  Rolf looked at the miserable creatures squatting on the floor, staring at him with their eyes wide open in fear.

  It was really a miserable bunch, and Rolf was already cursing himself.

  How could he have imagined that he could recruit an army from amongst these creatures?

  To his left, right next to the door he had just pushed open, someone was moving. It was a young woman, maybe half as old as Rolf. Her clothes were in rags. One breast hung out halfway and Rolf could see scars from bites on the soft skin. He stretched out his hand and helped her to her feet. He noticed that she had a more alert look than the others.

  "Can you shoot?" he asked her.

  She nodded a little anxiously and he released one hand from the pump gun, grabbed his hip holster and held the gun to her.

  "You're gonna have to take the safety off."

  "I know."

  "Okay. Get these people on their feet here. Where's the rest?"

  "Next door."

  Rolf turned his head in the direction she had pointed. Then he nodded to her and opened this door too.

  Here he was presented with a very similar picture of misery. Thin, sick and scared. Except two young men. They didn't look much better than the others, but at least they had the guts to position themselves to the right and left of the door. Their fists, raised to attack, had been lowered immediately after seeing Rolf's pump-gun.

  So not only courageous, but also halfway intelligent.

  One of them said with a pleading tone:

  "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I am René and this is Bastian", while he pointed to the other one.

  "Good for you. But we don't have time for that now."

  Rolf pressed his second pistol into the hand of the one who had spoken and gave him the same instruction he had given to the young woman before. The latter had already begun to implement his order, as he noticed when he looked back. The wretches were now all on their feet.

  Almost all of them.

  In one corner of the shabby basement, another old woman was crouching. To no one in particular Rolf said:

  "Can anyone carry her? If not, she stays here."

  Nobody responded.

  "Haven't you heard? Somebody's got to carry her, or we're leaving her behind. Someone has to take care of her. We don't have much time. Come on, get your shit together. Act!"

  Finally there was movement in the group. Rolf gathered them in the stairwell.

  "Here's the situation. We're going out. You're running after me. There's more of those guys out there who held you captive. Some on horses and some on foot. In a house I've deposited weapons, equipment and supplies. I will lead you there and then we will leave Frankfurt. Some of you may come up with the idea of rather testing your luck alone. I can't prevent that, but I'd like to strongly advise you against it. The whole area's full of these motherfuckers. We have the best chance if we stay together. Everybody get that?"

  They had trouble looking him in the eye.

  All except the half-naked girl with the gun and the two young men. So now Rolf turned directly to them.

  "You three, make sure nobody's left behind, you hear?"

  Then his gaze fell on the one he hadn't given a gun to yet.

  Bastian, right?

  He put the pump gun in his hand.

  "Can you handle it?"

  "Yes ... I think so. I..."

  "Good," Rolf said, turning his back on Bastian. He'd be all right.

  "I need a little more time."

  Then he began checking his sub-machine gun magazines and merging the individual cartridges into a single magazine. They all watched him as new whistling signals from outside howled through the night.

  He only had bullets for three quarters of a magazine left.

  Oh, shit.

  He snapped it into place and switched the MP to single fire.

  They were supposed to have reached Ivan's bunker by now.

  "All the Degs that were here in the house are dead. As dead as this bitch here," he said, pointing to the body lying at his feet in the passageway.

  "Their weapons are still lying around. Take them with you if you dare to handle them."

  With these words Rolf turned around and went up ahead of them.

  It took exactly three seconds for him to hear them set themselves in motion. After the stuffy air in the house stinking of blood and human vapours, it was a blessing for Rolf to be able to breathe freely again. But he couldn't take the time to enjoy it.

  As he tried to keep an eye on the entire environment, thoughts shot through his head.

  These weaklings will never get out of town in one night.

  They're way too broken.

  Too starved and too scared.

  What a fucking dumb idea!

  Apart from the two guys and the little one, it wasn't only the old and frail that he had taken out of the cellar, but even those who still had to be strong from the age point of view had suffered psychologically and physically a great deal from their captivity. He had been unable to perceive any immediate danger since he had left the house and now turned back to see how it was going. Surprised, he found that a few of them had accepted his proposal and grabbed some of the Degs' primitive weapons.

  Signs and miracles still happen ....

  "Good. Now let's go. In ten, fifteen minutes you'll get something to eat, better weapons and new clothes."

  For the thousandth time that night, it seemed to Rolf, the whistle sig
nals echoed through the night.

  They could be here any minute.

  For a second he thought about leading them through the houses and over the roofs. But that would take too long, and with such a large group it would not be silent either.

  No.

  They had to go through the streets.

  They managed almost two hundred meters before unrest broke out in the group behind Rolf. Reluctantly, with a curse on his lips, he turned around. Someone seemed to have fallen. The old lady who hadn't wanted to get up in the basement. The little one tried to get her to go on, but it didn't work. The old woman just sat on the floor and whimpered, oblivious of herself, like a toddler, unable to do anything or even understand the situation she was in.

  Rolf hurriedly pushed aside the wretched figures who stood in his way and built himself up in front of the fallen one. Just as he was about to start giving hell to that stupid cow, he paused.

  Horse hooves.

  Banshee whistles.

  Eared neigh.

  Which way?

  He turned once on his own axis.

  Too late.

  Too late.

  Two riders ploshed straight into the group of thirty women and men. Bodies were thrown aside and bones were broken. The horses ploughed through them like the blade of a sickle through the grain, and the riders shoved and stabbed everywhere. Someone was thrown at Rolf. The impact drove the air out of his lungs and knocked him over. Cries of pain all around. He heard one of his pistols crack a few meters away. Twice. Shortly after, the pump gun. The shots rose high above the shouting that had broken out among the prisoners at the same time as the riders appeared.

  One of the animals was panicking. It must have been hit. Rolf fought his way up to his feet. He towered over most of his new proteges by at least head length and could see that this impression had been correct.

  One of the riders was catapulted out of the saddle when his horse collapsed.

  The other one was further back, bridling his animal straight, safe to turn around and attack again. That at least must have been his original intention until he heard the shots. Now it was too late to stop the maneuver, and Rolf could read in his distorted face that he was only too aware of it. It took him three shots with the MP to hit that guy right in the head. The horse fled in animalistic fear.

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Why didn't I hear them before?

  Should the endless chain of failures that Rolf was pulling behind himself never end?

  Pull yourself together, man!

  "Who's hurt? I mean: How many? I..."

  Rolf broke up.

  The rider's attack had driven the group, which had initially walked close together behind him, just as Rolf had ordered, apart. He saw Bastian aim the pump-gun upwards.

  Upwards? What...?

  A few meters from him stood René, who did the same with his pistol. Where was the girl? Rolf's gaze groped searchingly over those who were still standing, those who had fallen and were now, like himself, about to rise again, and those who had trampled down and wounded or died lying motionless on the still snowy road.

  He found her.

  She also aimed upwards, high above her head like the others, but her attention turned to another roof. Then Rolf's gaze caught on one of the figures who was unable to stand up again.

  An arrow stuck in its body.

  Finally Rolf tore his head up, too.

  Four on each side.

  Now I know how they must have felt when I chased them.

  It was the little one who opened fire first. Rolf saw the muzzle flash of her pistol, saw one of the degenerate archers fall. No screaming. She must have hit the head or the heart. Then - finally - he began to react and also shot. On the very outside, at the edge of his perception threshold, he saw that René and Bastian also used their weapons. The angle was difficult. The three liberated weren't trained shooters. As a result, the degenerates were able to send six more arrows on their way before they were killed. Four of them did hit. One of their victims was Bastian. The arrow had penetrated his body from above and disappeared twenty centimeters deep between his neck and collarbone. The pump-gun had slipped from his hands and lay next to him on the cold floor. In the moonlight Rolf saw his blood shimmer.

  How many?

  How many have we lost?

  Now, how many deaths am I responsible for this time?

  It was spooky quiet. The shots still sounded in Rolf's ears. How many times did he pull the trigger? How many bullets did he have left in the magazine? The little one must have noticed that there was nothing be expected from Rolf at that moment, because he was surprised to see that she took the initiative. She walked around, helping some on their feet and ignoring others as other whistling signals echoed eerily high through the night.

  For a few more seconds Rolf watched her, until he realized that he had to act again if he didn't want everything to be in vain. He set himself in motion.

  At the end there were eleven left, which he led to the bags waiting in the stairwell of the building in which Ivan's - his - coward bunker was located. The others weren't all dead when they left them. Not yet at least, even if they would be soon.

  As hard as it was to say that or admit it: The victims they had to mourn had in the end led to the fact that he had progressed faster with the rest. And those who were still alive might end up buying them a little more time if the reinforcements, which would undoubtedly already spread out from the station into this city of ruins, were to stumble over them.

  They'll stop and give them the rest. Maybe even interrogate them if we're lucky.

  Not that Rolf could count that as a merit. It had been the little one who had made him leave the wounded behind with vehement curses and insults. She knew how to survive. That was probably the reason why she now had the pump gun of the unfortunate Bastian with her as well as the pistol.

  Rolf pointed to the two front pockets.

  "There's guns in there. Help yourselves."

  Foreworld VIII

  When he woke up, the pain had diminished a little. His left hand was still pounding. He must have moved in his sleep, and not too little. Some of the bandages that had been put on him had slipped. Some had become loose or even detached.

  While he methodically went about examining his wounds and tightening the bandages, he was starving of hunger. He must have slept late, on the cold naked ground. His back hurt, in addition to all the other sources of pain his body offered to him.

  He noticed that the humming of the generator was no longer audible.

  Was it broken? Did they have to save fuel? Didn't matter. His eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that the little light that fell through the cracks in the hatch was enough to let him see that they had thrown down a new bottle of water and a fresh bunch of food. And there was something else. An old, dented metal bucket for his excrements. By local standards that was almost luxury, he joked in his thoughts. Then he giggled at the fact that he could joke, and then he laughed at his giggling. It kind of sounded ... not healthy, even not in his own ears.

  In fact, a change in the light conditions told him that someone had stepped next to the hatch during his laughing spree and only left again when his hysterical laughter stopped at some point.

  The metal bucket was not the only innovation in his narrow world. Or rather, not the only thing that had changed. The book in which he had written - it was now somewhere else, closer to the hatch, almost next to the food bundle and the water bottle, just as if someone had taken it upstairs and thrown it down again after studying it.

  Toni tried to get up, and the few steps that were necessary to reach it, to walk like a normal, completely real person - but he didn't succeed, and so he finally crawled.

  When he opened it, he realized that the pages he had filled with his first impressions and thoughts had been ripped out.

  I wonder if they'd send the pages to General Mobanta.

  Was one of his torturers capable of reading and would tell th
e General about radio what Toni had written?

  Perhaps the young man, the commander of this prison.

  He wondered if they'd come back for him today.

  Would they fuck him again, torture him and cut off another finger?

  With reluctance he listened into himself and realized that there was indeed a small spark of fear in him. At first he wanted to despise himself for it, but then he found to his true self again and decided to find a way to use this fear as a driving force.

  He remembered what he did the day before - because it was a whole day that had passed since the last time, wasn't it? - and began to eat. He ate everything completely and drank the water in small sips between the bites. He noticed that he had been left with a little more meat on his bones and that the millet flat cake was not quite as old as the one before.

  Carrot and stick, in the truest and most direct sense of the saying.

  They rewarded him for writing. So he'd keep writing.

  There was nothing else he could do anyway.

  He wrote about his first sermon. Easter was approaching and so it was advisable to swagger about Jesus and his disciples. He had agreed with Herod and left the lion's share of the necessary chatter to the chatterer. Toni, on the other hand, was focused on studying the faces of his congregation. Especially the elderly seemed to like what Toni's unworthy companion had to offer and when it came to singing, the whole congregation showed an enthusiasm and a talent that was seldom seen in Rome or the rest of Europe. Toni was amazed that Herod actually succeeded in creating real joy in these people. But well, Toni should be all right with that. The more they hung on his lips, the more undisturbed and direct Toni could make his observations.

  What he was looking for was not joy. What he was looking for was dissatisfaction and envy. Toni had by no means managed to remember all the strange names of the one hundred and fifty people who attended the service. But he noticed that this or that young man was throwing covetous glances to this or that woman. He noticed that another man frowned on it. He noticed in the last rows that there were ten or fifteen young men who did not sing along, and who did not seem to be listening either. They had only appeared for worship because of social conventions or because their wives or parents had asked them to do so.