Sequence 77

by Darin Preston

  Slumping into the bottom of the craft, Niclas buried his face in the crook of his arm to muffle the sound as he began to weep uncontrollably. Like tissue paper meeting flame, the life he knew vanished into nothing. He had been humbled to the breaking point and beyond. The best person he had ever known lay dead in blood-soaked snow. He wished only to wake up to discover that it was all a dream, or at least that it was he, not Dieter, who had perished in that courtyard.

  Though never having much patience for religion before, he found himself compelled to speak with God at that moment. “What are you trying to tell me?” he spat angrily, looking into the starry sky. “What in the hell am I supposed to do now?” he asked, his vision blurred by tears. His chin fell to his chest, allowing the salty liquid to flow downward as steadily as the river surrounding him.

  Putting his hands to his chest, he felt the cold, stiff paper of the pilfered file pressing against his skin. He carefully removed it from inside his shirt and set it on his lap. Pulling the flashlight from his pocket, he took off his trench coat and pulled it over his head to form a makeshift shelter. He turned on the flashlight and opened the tattered folder. “Genetic Manipulation,” he read aloud and began flipping through the detailed pages. The research described within the many documents was advanced. Even for him, the concepts seemed daunting. He would need years to understand it all, and even more time to know how to make use of it. All he was sure of at the moment was that he must succeed. Dieter’s sacrifice would not be in vain.

  Exhausted, Niclas turned off the flashlight and tied the file shut with his remaining string. He put his coat back on and closed it tight as he centered himself in the rickety boat. Frowning, he pondered his next steps should he manage to evade capture. He and Dieter had acted so quickly that they hadn’t discussed where they would go once free. He thought for a moment and realized that there was nowhere he could go where he would feel safe, except home. He feared that the Nazis would come to the same conclusion, but knew they may go there no matter what his true destination. Returning to Annaberg and the impenetrable shelter of the Ore Mountains was his best, and only option if he hoped to save his family and do right by his friend.

  All he had to do now, was survive.

  Chapter 25

  Return to Nowhere

  Annaberg, Germany

  February 1945

  THE ORE MOUNTAINS emerged from out of the haze like a peaceful giant as the morning sun tiptoed slowly over the horizon to chase away the mist. After months of journeying through numerous small villages and dense woodlands, Niclas finally neared his childhood home. His pale, unnaturally thin face was covered by a patchy beard which did little to protect from the bitter wind blowing through the sweeping valley leading to Annaberg. The frayed bindings of his worn wooden snowshoes were all but useless, forcing him to struggle in order to stay on top of the deep snowpack. On nearly frozen feet, he trekked warily along the tree line leading into the hills, cautiously approaching the sleepy town. After numerous close calls with Nazi patrols over the last several weeks, he had developed a newfound appreciation for nearby cover and tentative escape routes. An irresistible urge to return home seemed to conflict with his newly realized distrust of humanity, but it had gotten him this far and would see him through to his destination.

  Upon reaching the edge of a clearing, Niclas knelt down and peered toward the picturesque town in the distance. Opening a small, tattered knapsack he had procured along the way, he removed a small spyglass. Extending the cylinder to full length, he looked through the eyepiece and scanned the town cautiously. Although his primary purpose was to identify possible ambush points, he could not fight the feeling of nostalgia which washed over him. The rooftops blended together under a blanket of white snow, smoke rolling upward from every chimney. The church steeple could be seen rising like a beacon above the rest of the town as the morning bell resonated across the waking valley. Dogs barked in protest of the piercing sound until it echoed completely away. Everything seemed just as he remembered it, and yet completely alien. He no longer possessed the innocent eyes which had last gazed upon his home.

  With no detectable signs of danger, he stashed the spyglass away and slung the tattered bag over his shoulder. Adeptly using the lengthy shadows cast by the low morning sun to mask his approach, he made his way methodically across the open field. As he neared the edge of town, Niclas could see the narrow stream where he had spent so many summers searching for frogs and insects while his brothers fished and waded in the cool water. Although reduced to a mere trickle by unrelenting ice, the banks were muddied by frequent visits made by small herds of sheep and local wildlife. Several meager paths could be seen protruding from the water’s edge. Each muddy trail led to a different home as residents near the outskirts of town tended to use the nearby stream for their water supply, rather than the wells dug further away near the center of town. More by instinct than memory, he knew which path would lead him home.

  As he climbed the sloping bank to its crest, he could see a thin curl of smoke rising in the distance from the chimney of his old home. He fought the urge to drop his scant belongings and run headlong up the path, yelling for his mother and father. Instead, he moved parallel to the small house, taking up refuge behind a neatly stacked pile of firewood, not more than twenty meters from the front door. Finding a small gap to see through, Niclas lurked quietly, watching painstakingly for signs that his loved ones were inside, and most importantly, alone. He did not have to wait for long as the heavy wooden door opened with a memorable squeak. A woman emerged slowly from the doorway and looked out into the morning air as if searching for something in the distance. Her long hair was mostly gray, with shocks of black running its length.

  “Mama?” whispered Niclas to himself. He struggled to believe that his mother had aged this much since the last time he had laid eyes upon her.

  Seeing nothing of significance on the horizon, Alessandra cast her eyes to the ground and turned slowly to go back inside.

  Niclas sprang to his feet, unable to bear it any longer. “Mama!” he yelled as he clambered over the woodpile and sprinted toward her.

  Startled, Alessandra grasped at the thick wool blanket which had been pulled tightly over her shoulders. “Niclas?” she gasped, her eyes widening as recognition set in. Before she could take a step in his direction, her youngest son met her with an embrace that effortlessly lifted her from the ground.

  “My little Nicky!” she exclaimed, kissing her son’s cheek joyously and crying her first happy tears in a very long time. Just as it seemed that they would hold each other forever, Alessandra put her hands on Niclas’s aged face and looked into his eyes. She marveled at how much older he appeared. “Where have you been Nicky? It has been so long since you’ve written,” she said, her expression a mixture of worry and relief.

  “I wrote many times, Mama. I’m sorry you didn’t get my letters. If I would have known…” his voice trailed off as yet another realization about how controlling the Nazis had really been, struck like a fist to an already battered heart.

  “Come inside, Niclas, you’re shaking from the cold,” she urged, tugging at the edges of his badly worn coat.

  “Yes, Mama,” he said obediently and followed her inside. Niclas shuddered as a flood of memories washed over him. Although little had changed in the appearance of the small house, there was something vital which eluded his senses. “It’s cold in here, you need more wood on the fire, Mama,” he observed, kneeling close to the embers for warmth.

  She firmly closed the door to shut out winter’s bitter determination. “I carry a few logs each day, but I’m too tired to bring many inside,” she replied, sighing wearily.

  “I’m surprised Papa hasn’t moved the entire stack of wood inside by now,” said Niclas, shaking his head at his father’s unusual lapse of dependability. The childhood memory of having to avoid tripping on logs whenever he got out of bed during the night made him smile.

  Alessandra’s shoulders sagged inst
antly at the mention of her husband. Her gaze turned slowly to the door as if waiting for it to open at any moment.

  Seeing the seriousness in his mother’s stare, Niclas felt a sense of dread flow over him. “What’s happened? Tell me,” he said apprehensively, standing up to place his hands on her troubled shoulders.

  “We have much to discuss, Niclas,” she whispered, looking up at him somberly. Alessandra’s heart weighed heavily with what she needed to tell her son. She braced herself against one of the heavy wooden chairs surrounding the dinner table and motioned her son to sit down. Niclas compliantly sat down without breaking eye contact with his mother. “I’ve been alone here for nearly two years now, Nicky,” she said in a forlorn voice.

  “Two years?” whispered Niclas, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Where’s Papa?” he asked, grasping his mother’s hand in alarm.

  “Soldiers came from Berlin and conscripted all of the able-bodied men in the village,” she said coldly, her emotions spent. “Your father is no young man, and we begged that they let him stay. But only the very young and very old were allowed to stay behind.” Alessandra descended slowly into the chair next to Niclas as her legs shook under the weight of the memory.

  “Where did they take him?” he asked, his mouth dry from worry.

  Bringing her hands to her face in despair, she spoke through the tears. “The last letter I received from your father said that they were marching into Russia, but that was many months ago.

  Shaking his head, he looked about as if searching for answers in the tiny room. “There could be any number of reasons for such a delay. Papa may be getting older, but he is strong. I’m sure you will hear from him soon.” Niclas spoke to comfort himself as much as his mother. The words rang hollow as Alessandra began to weep uncontrollably. He quickly pulled her close to him. She buried her head in his chest and continued to shed an overabundance of stored up tears. “Please, Mama, you must believe that he will be all right,” he pleaded as his mother’s sorrow ripped at his soul without mercy.

  Regaining just enough composure to speak, Alessandra unsteadily pushed herself away from Niclas and looked at him purposefully through a blur of tears. “Eldwin is dead,” she said, seeming to acknowledge it for the first time.

  The already tiny room appeared to close in as Niclas felt all of the air in his lungs escape in a single burst. For weeks after witnessing Dieter’s murder, he wondered if the entire experience was just a terrible dream. Now, there could be no doubt that he was living in a nightmare.

  “How?” he asked, laboring to catch his breath.

  “He was fighting in Belgium around Christmas, but I don’t know the town.” She shakily pulled a wrinkled letter from a small wooden box on the table and handed it to Niclas.

  Reading the letter thoroughly, he hoped to discover that the communication was sent in error, but no mistake had been made. His eldest brother had fallen to enemy mortar fire while defending an “invaluable strategic position” in the service of Hitler and the Fatherland. The message was as efficient and bereft of compassion as the military itself.

  Devoid of emotion, Niclas held his mother close while the many weeks of continuous strain took its toll. Strangely aware of everything around him, it was as if he had moved beyond the reality of the moment and into an alternate state of being. His mind focused on every snap and crackle from the dwindling fire and the cold draft as it clawed its way through small openings around the door and windows. He could feel his heart beating against his chest and hear the blood pumping methodically through his veins. The moment was surreal as if reality had broken and a new existence had asserted itself. Nothing of the old remained. Somehow he knew, he’d never get it back again.

  Placing one hand gently on his mother’s head, he stroked her hair comfortingly. “I’m putting you in danger by being here. Mama, I have to go away until I know it is safe to return,” he said quietly.

  “You mustn’t go, Nicky! His mother continued to cling to him as if he would turn to smoke at any moment. “Safe from what? What are you hiding from?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “I took something from some very bad people, and they want it back,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at how simple the explanation really was.

  Looking up at her son pitifully, Alessandra whimpered with fresh grief. “I can’t bear to lose you, too, Nicky!”

  Clearing his throat, Niclas wanted to ensure that his voice conveyed the deep determination welling inside. “You won’t lose me,” he promised. “I’ll hide in the mines for as long as I can and check in on you once the spring thaw has taken hold.” Guiding his beleaguered mother back into her chair, he regarded her pale green eyes with assurance.

  Brushing tear-dampened hair from her face, Alessandra wasn’t ready to let go again, not yet. “Please don’t leave yet, Nicky, I only just got my little boy back.” Almost as an afterthought, she reached again for the small box that had contained her oldest son’s death notice. She gently lifted a slightly scuffed, but otherwise intact gold watch from its shallow depths. The chain was missing, but Niclas immediately recognized it as the one belonging to his father. Cupping it in her hands lovingly for a moment, she slowly held it out for him to take. “Papa gave this to Eldwin before he left home. He said it would keep them close, no matter how far apart they were.” Sullenly, she contemplated the possibility that their fates were bound together. Without further hesitation, she placed it solemnly into her son’s trembling hands. “It is yours now.”

  Cradling the old watch between his palms, an observer would have assumed they had exchanged a fragile butterfly that would be crushed under too much pressure, but fly away with too little attention. “This belongs to Papa. He will want it when he gets home,” said Niclas quietly, moving his hands back toward his weary mother in an effort to return it.

  “When he returns, you can give it to him yourself. For now, perhaps it will keep you near to me.” She smiled weakly, pressing her hands over her son’s to close his grasp and seal their agreement.

  Nodding, he reluctantly accepted stewardship of the timepiece but looked forward to the day he would return the duty to his father. “I will stay for today and gather supplies, but I must leave at nightfall.” Taking her hand, he smiled reassuringly. “Just know that you’re not alone anymore, Mama.” He put the watch carefully into his coat pocket and moved despondently toward the door.

  “Thank you, my dear Nicky.” Alessandra peered curiously at her son, only now perceiving just how emaciated he was under his wool coat. “You’re half starved,” she gasped, her mouth suddenly agape. “Let me prepare you something to eat,” she said quickly, picking up a brown burlap sack containing only meager provisions. “I haven’t been to market in some time, but I know I have a few vegetables left for a stock.” She moved stiffly, but with purpose, toward the heavy iron pot near the fire.

  Not wishing to upset his mother further, Niclas hastily opened the creaky door and was immediately bathed in morning sunlight. “First let me bring in a better supply of firewood for you, Mama, then perhaps I will have an appetite.” He let the heavy door close behind him as he could bear the sight of his mother’s plight no longer.

  Trudging heavily toward the stack of wood he had used for cover earlier, he reached for one of the snow-covered logs. He held it in his hands momentarily, feeling the cold, dense weight of it against his fingers. After weeks of running on fear, he suddenly had a very different, but just as primal emotion rising within his chest. Grabbing the slender log at one end like a club, Niclas bared his teeth and let out a guttural yell. He began to swing the log wildly, bludgeoning pieces of bark and splintered wood into the snow. After running on the fuel of dread and adrenaline for so long, he simply could not cope with the realization that Eldwin and Dieter were dead, his father and brother Otto remained in harm’s way, and his mother had been left to wither in misery. “They will pay for this,” he seethed through clenched teeth as blood dripped from the dry, cracked skin around torn fingernails.


  His remaining energy quickly spent, Niclas took a few deep breaths and wiped his bloodied hands in the snow, leaving a bright red stain on the otherwise pristine white landscape. Remembering his current task, he gathered a stack of wood, walked the few dozen paces back to the house and started a new pile just outside the door. For the rest of the morning, he repeated this procedure, moving methodically from one ever shrinking stack to one ever growing until the former disappeared.

  Hearing the door open slowly, Niclas looked numbly at the longsuffering face of his mother. A light snow was beginning to fall.

  “I have some stew and bread, Niclas, please come inside,” she said quietly, reaching for his battered hands and guiding him into the house. Relieved that he had finally agreed to come in and eat, Alessandra quickly closed the door behind them.

  His mother had not been witness to his primal outburst, nor noticed the taint of blood on the path made during his move of the firewood. He had returned home in search of salvation but found only reason to rage and despair. Even the shallow hope that his father and brother Otto may still be alive was not enough to anchor his heart upon. Like the lifeless bundles he had just carried, Niclas found himself cast into the fire to be burned to ember and ash. Although he would maintain the facade for his mother, he sensed that nothing remained of the person he was.