Blood Red Sand

by Damien Larkin

  “Of course, I’d be happy to enlighten you, Miss Bailey,” Wagner said with a polite nod. “Our next test will be one linked to the internal programming of your new Hollow body.”

  Anna tilted her head, returning her fiery gaze to him. “Internal programming?”

  “Yes. It makes you not only more compliant to my orders, but it has some interesting applications, which could revolutionise how we fight future wars.”

  “Fascinating,” Anna hissed in response.

  “It is,” he said, beaming back. “I’m surprised you can’t hear it whispering to you right now, beneath the surface.”

  Anna stopped in her tracks and faced him. Every muscle in her body tightened, as if fighting her invisible restraints. Her face flashed red, and her eyelids fell to slits.

  “Hear what?” she demanded.

  Wagner leaned in closer to her until their eyes became level. He smirked as she maintained her efforts, fighting a useless battle to free herself from his control.

  “The Voice of God,” he whispered.

  A rap on the reinforced window stole his attention. He spun about and saw two waiting SS officers standing outside the lab. He clapped his hands in delight and ordered the rest of his team to exit the room. With a spring in his step, he walked into the open area in the centre of his laboratory and gestured at Anna to follow. Seething, she marched in a mechanical fashion and halted as soon as he commanded.

  “It looks like we’re about ready to begin,” he said, unable to mask the excitement in his voice. “But first, I have a few questions for you. You will answer them honestly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Anna responded in a flat tone.

  “Good. First, tell me… How many times have you met or seen a member of these so-called Native Martians?”

  “On three occasions. The first was shortly after I arrived here. The other times were during some point in my incarceration. I never interacted with them, and I’m not sure if they even saw me.”

  “Excellent.” Wagner rubbed his gloved hands together. “Tell me… Based on your limited knowledge of these Natives Martians, what are your impressions of them?”

  “They appear to be human, although taller and slenderer. I’ve overheard them speaking German and what I assume is their own language. They seem fit, healthy, and friendly with your people. I can’t offer any more insights, Herr Reichsführer.”

  “They are a most hospitable people, Miss Bailey,” Wagner said as he circled her. “In all the years we have shared this planet, there has never been a single incident of violence between our races. They have never posed a threat to our existence on…what is it they call this place?” He snapped his fingers as his brain searched for the term. “Ah, yes. Big Red.”

  Wagner halted directly in front of his prize. With a savage grin, he reached for his Luger and cocked it. He took Anna’s hand in his, and turning it over, he slipped the pistol into her palm. He stepped to the side and raised his hand towards the guards and staff observing him through the reinforced glass.

  “One final question, Miss Bailey. I am sure you’re not going to like this, but for the purposes of our test, I need to know. Tell me… What do you hate more than anything?”

  The hand holding the pistol shook slightly. Anna clenched her teeth and locked her jaw, as if to keep the words to herself. Her face glowed red from the effort of fighting the programming that dominated her mind. Her resistance died quickly.

  “Insects,” she blurted out. “I hate insects.”

  Some of the watching technicians and scientists chuckled at that, but a single glare from Wagner quieted them.

  The door to the lab swung open, and two burly SS soldiers stepped through. Behind them a tall, hooded prisoner sauntered forward, his wrists and ankles shackled. Two more soldiers brought up the rear and guided the prisoner to where Wagner indicated. They whipped the hood from the prisoner’s head, revealing the thin and angular face of a Native Martian. Adjusting to the light, the native lowered his gaze and squinted as he glanced around the room. He spoke confused words in his own language, but Wagner ignored him.

  “Miss Bailey, what do you see in front of you?”

  “A Native Martian, Herr Reichsführer.”

  “Good.”

  He walked over to one of the nearby controls and typed in several commands. After checking the read-outs on his screens, he turned his focus to the audience outside.

  “For the purposes of this test, I will be verbalising exactly what is going through the test subject’s mind. The Voice of God programming will do this internally and without the subject being aware of it. Right now, Anna is in Standby Mode. Next, I will move her to Assessment Mode. Beginning test.”

  Wagner pressed a final button on his console and then spun about to face Anna. She stood as rigid and unflinching as before, with the gun resting in her hand.

  After spotting the pistol, the terrified native kept uttering words of mercy, but they fell on deaf ears.

  “Who are you?” Wagner asked.

  “My name is Anna Bailey. I am a Terran soldier.”

  “What is your core drive, Miss Bailey?”

  “Protect Terra.”

  “What is Terra?”

  “Terra is life. Terra is home. Terra is everything. Terra must be protected. Protect Terra.”

  “Good. Good!” Wagner exclaimed and clapped his hands. “Now, Miss Bailey, what do you see in front of you?”

  “I see a Native Martian male, approximately 1.9 metres in height and 60 kilogrammes in weight. He appears shackled and unarmed.”

  “If I ordered you to shoot him, would you, Miss Bailey?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsführer.”

  “Would you experience guilt or regret afterwards?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsführer.”

  Beaming with joy, Wagner turned to the console. He worked his fingertips across the controls again, and glancing up at his eager audience, he flicked a switch. “I’m initiating Combat Mode now.”

  He swung about and took a few paces closer to Anna. He peered from the native and back towards her. Her penetrating gaze was fixed on the panicking prisoner in front of her.

  “Now tell me what you see?” Wagner asked.

  A momentary look of disgust flashed across her face, but the rest of her body stood rooted to the spot. The tempo of her breathing increased.

  “I see an insect-like creature with eight legs and a torso. It appears to be approximately 1.9 metres in height, but I cannot ascertain its weight. All eight points of its legs appear razor-sharp. Its head is human-like but contains sharpened teeth.”

  The technicians and scientists started clapping, but Wagner held up a hand to hush them. Marvelling at his creation, he placed a gloved hand on her shoulder.

  “That creature is an enemy of Terra. Exterminate it.”

  “Protect Terra,” Anna said and raised the pistol from her side.

  With no outward signs of hesitation, she took aim and squeezed the trigger. Bullets struck the native in the centre of his chest, causing him to crash backwards onto the ground. Crimson blood squirted from his wounds as he flailed about, screaming in his native tongue. Anna stalked towards him, took aim at his head, and fired a final shot. The native’s skull exploded across the floor, finishing him off.

  With a flick of Wagner’s hand, the waiting SS guards grabbed at the prisoner’s punctured body. A trail of blood streaked across the polished floor as they dragged him from the lab. Grinning in victory, Wagner took back his pistol, uncocked it, and slipped it into his holster. He gave a slight bow as his audience applauded him, and placing his hand on Anna’s arm, he led her back to her original position.

  “I’d say that went quiet well,” he said to muffled laughter from his team outside.

  He tapped on his console again, and removing several disks, he placed them in a brown envelope marked as URGENT. One of his staff members entered the room, took up th
e package, and hurried down the hallway.

  Focusing on Anna again, Wagner brought his lips close to her ear. “You may relax now, Miss Bailey.”

  Her body slumped again. This time, she stumbled back a few paces. She raised her hands as her gaze shot back and forth, scanning the room.

  “What in God’s name was that thing?” she shrieked as she backed into the far wall.

  “That, Miss Bailey, is the future.”

  CITY CENTRE DEFENSIVE LINES

  15.45 MST

  DAY 2

  The sound of non-stop gunfire filled the air as Private Jenkins jumped behind a blazing panzer for cover. A torrent of bullets lashed out at the MEF from Nazi defences up ahead. To his left and right, the Jewish insurgents known as the Army of David crept forward. Carrying mostly German equipment and weapons, they made co-ordinated movements as they rushed towards the barricades, taking turns to lay down covering fire. Oily-smelling smoke choked the air from the burning carcasses of panzers. The bodies of Nazi, Allied, and Jewish fighters blended, blanketing the cratered street.

  Braving the enemy rounds bashing into the twisted panzer shell, Jenkins aimed his Lee-Enfield. He pointed it at the German lines and tracked a small group of Volkssturm defenders foolishly throwing themselves into the blizzard of MEF bullets. Jenkins curled his finger on his rifle’s trigger and emptied his ammo clip, dropping two of the Nazis. The other three fell to the Allied onslaught.

  The terrifying screech of a transport missile sounded a split second before the enemy line disappeared into a ball of flame. Broken bodies spiralled through the air from the deadly payload. Machinegun fire tapped out at the MEF, but at a fraction of the volume from moments ago.

  “Forward!” Zofia’s voice pierced the avalanche of noise around Jenkins.

  The Army of David fighters let out their own savage cheer as they pulled themselves up and pressed on. Men and women alike charged towards the burning Nazi trenches, and children were not far behind them. Junior Sergeant Alexeev appeared on Jenkins’s right flank, his AK-47 on full-automatic. The surviving Nazis laid down as much fire as they could, but with most of their line in ashes, it looked to be a hopeless attempt. Jumping to his feet, Jenkins joined in the mad dash and fired his Lee-Enfield at the same time.

  As they neared the German lines, several of the Army of David fighters hit the scorched ground from the enemy’s bullets. Even wounded, they clutched at their weapons, shooting at point blank range with their dying breaths.

  The children sheltered behind their adult wards. They lit their Molotov cocktails and chucked them at the German emplacements. Many of them died alongside their adult protectors, but the Nazis paid dearly. Wehrmacht and Volkssturm soldiers exploded in flame when the Molotov cocktails struck them. They rolled about on the ground, screaming as the fire seared their skin and uniforms. The Jewish fighters ignored them and vaulted into the enemy trenches.

  Following close behind the first wave of Jewish attackers, Jenkins reached the Nazi lines when Junior Sergeant Alexeev did. The hulking Russian swung his AK-47 to the left and right, tapping on his trigger with precision. German soldiers crumpled around the Soviet NCO before two Volkssturm soldiers caught him off guard.

  One grabbed the Russian from behind, and another tried to skewer him with a bayonet. Snarling, the junior sergeant kicked out his foot, catching the approaching Nazi in the stomach. Jenkins threw himself forward and ran the point of his bayonet into the back of the Volkssturm soldier who gripped Junior Sergeant Alexeev from behind. The enemy combatant shrieked. He released his grip and dropped to the muddy trench floor. Jenkins thrust his weapon downwards repeatedly until the German died in as much agony as Jenkins could inflict.

  Junior Sergeant Alexeev grunted something in Russian, which Jenkins guessed to be some form of thanks. Then he turned about and pushed towards the sound of enemy gunfire.

  On the left flank of the Nazi lines, Jewish fighters swarmed the remaining holdouts. Moving towards them, Jenkins fired twice as enemy reinforcements tried to join the fray. He caught one Nazi in the head and another through the chest. He pushed on, leaving them on the ground where they lay.

  Two more Wehrmacht soldiers landed in the trenches ahead and turned their guns on the Jewish fighters. They blasted their weapons, cutting down men, women, and children without hesitation.

  An elderly man, clasping at his wounded chest, crawled along the street and out of their line of sight. He pulled out a grenade, rolled into the trench in front of the Nazis, and landed at their feet. Shouting something in German, he held up the grenade for them to see. In a flash, all three men disappeared, leaving splotches of scorched meat and blackened limbs in Jenkins’s path.

  Stumbling from the force of the explosion, Jenkins ran a quick hand over his chest to check for wounds. Not feeling any, he shook himself off before darting past the singed and torn pieces of the men that lined the trench. He continued towards the sound of Nazi guns. Three young girls appeared above him. One raised a rifle, but she lowered it a moment later at seeing his stained British battledress.

  The girl with the rifle started to speak when bullets rang out. She rammed the butt of the weapon into her shoulder. Like an expert, she took aim, exhaled, and pulled the trigger. The screams of wounded men told Jenkins her bullets found their mark. She said something to her two friends and nodded towards the Nazi machinegun emplacement. An eyeblink later, she tumbled backwards with a shriek, clutching at her throat. Her friends screamed. They lit Molotov cocktails and flung them over the trench. Seconds later, two burning Nazi soldiers plummeted onto the ground in front of Jenkins. Their limbs flapped as they burned. Jenkins plunged his bayonet into their chests, wounding them further. As they writhed and screeched from the flames chewing their sizzling flesh, Jenkins ran past them.

  After hauling himself out of the trench, he watched the Jewish fighters overrun the last Nazi machinegun. They hacked the soldier to pieces with hatchets before swinging the light machinegun about to face the next Nazi defensive line a hundred metres away. A solitary panzer rolled in from one of the side streets, shielding several Wehrmacht soldiers from the MEF onslaught. When the barrel of the lumbering monstrosity swung towards his direction, Jenkins dove into a nearby crater for shelter. The light machine gun in the hands of the Army of David belched out lead in short, swift bursts at Germans foolish enough to fall into their sights. The panzer boomed once as it fired a shell, and it obliterated the fighters with the light machine gun.

  Like ants swarming a picnic, Jewish fighters converged on the tank. As if oblivious to the concept of fear, they charged the Nazi weapons head-on. Dozens of them collapsed to the ground from bullets that cleaved through their bodies. Several Jewish insurgents leapt onto the hull of the panzer. Some of them used it as a firing position to blast at the Wehrmacht soldiers seeking shelter behind it. Others smashed their Molotov cocktails off its armour in a vain effort to slow its advance.

  An MEF team carrying captured panzerfausts signalled at the surviving Jewish fighters to scatter from the top of the panzer. Shots rang out, engulfing the enemy panzer in flames and causing it to lurch to a halt. Hatches swung open when the panzer crew tried to escape, but the waiting Army of David soldiers struck them with Molotov cocktails.

  Jenkins dragged himself up and fired his Lee-Enfield as the MEF and their allies continued the push against the enemy.

  Overhead, a transport swung low and unleashed another pair of missiles on the Nazi lines. Flaming death ripped through the German trenches as the attackers attempted to break their enemy’s spirit. Without faltering, Jewish units forged ahead, dying in droves as they sought to tear out the throats of their oppressors. Trying to lay down covering fire for them, Jenkins and his colleagues struggled to keep up with the Army of David’s unstoppable drive.

  Using the burning panzer for cover against German bullets, Jenkins slipped in a fresh clip and prepared to move. When he was about to swing himself around the hunk of burning metal, a b
loodied Wehrmacht soldier knocked him to the ground with a savage punch to the jaw. Dazed from the unexpected attack, Jenkins looked up. He rolled out of the way when the Nazi lunged his bayonet downward. The blade embedded in the ground where he had just been.

  Jenkins thrust his weapon upward, but the German soldier blocked it with his own rifle and slashed again. The tip of the blade cut across his cheek, and pain tore through Jenkins’s face. Roaring in anger, he grabbed at the Nazi’s rifle and shoved the barrel away. Keeping his grip on his opponent’s weapon, Jenkins forced his Lee-Enfield forward again, but he missed when the German sidestepped his attack.

  With a snarl, Jenkins rose to his feet and used his momentum to pin the Nazi against the side of the battle-scarred Panzer. A glare of hatred tore into Jenkins, and the enemy combatant smashed his head forward, catching Jenkins on the forehead. As his eyes watered, Jenkins barely had time to swipe with his Lee-Enfield before the Nazi tried to gouge him again.

  As Jenkins grappled with his adversary, a series of deafening explosions carving through the Wehrmacht’s lines sent them both crashing to the ground. They landed on their backs, but immediately tried to grab at each other. The German soldier managed to throw himself on top of Jenkins and grabbed his throat, but Jenkins used his enemy’s momentum against him and flung him onto the ground. The Nazi tightened his hand around Jenkins’s throat, but with Jenkins on top, he pressed his advantage.

  While fighting off the German’s attempts to unseat him, Jenkins moved his own hand to his enemy’s face. With the Nazis grip on his throat choking him, Jenkins inched his thumb towards the soldier’s eye. He gave a savage thrust and pressed his thumb into the Nazi’s eye socket. The eyeball burst under the pressure.

  The Nazi soldier screamed, and his body shuddered in pain. His grip around Jenkins’s throat loosened, so Jenkins snatched at the knife on his enemy’s belt. He slipped the knife loose and shoved the blade into the German’s throat. The enemy soldier gurgled as he choked on his own blood, driving Jenkins to twist the knife until the Nazi’s body fell limp. He pulled his bloodied thumb out of the German soldier’s eye socket and collapsed back against the panzer.