by Amy Cross
He hesitated for a moment, before turning and following Bohemon out into the rain. They were bound for Jerusalem, although neither man would reach that destination. Both would instead die outside the walls of Antioch, falling in a very different kind of madness, never knowing why – on that one brief journey – they had been lured to a barn that seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever.
It had not, however, been the barn that was important. It had been the pattern, a pattern hardwired into every human brain. A pattern that – though disguised as madness – might one day save the world.
Prologue Three
November 22nd, 1942.
They walked together. Dressed in tattered clothes, shuffling nervously across the dark yard, they made their way toward the building. Their bare feet disturbed the half-dried mud, and their breath was visible in the cold night air. All around, there was the occasional clicks of machinery and gun parts.
Occasionally someone spoke, in one of the languages of home, usually saying something like:
“It's going to be okay.”
or:
“Don't be frightened.”
or:
“It's not true. They just want us to work, that's all. You saw the sign when we arrived.”
Others stayed silent. They were the ones who'd accepted what was about to happen, who had seen this whole mechanized madness coming from the start. They were the ones who did not weep, for they believed that all of humanity had finally fallen and come to this awful moment.
Nobody tried to run. Nobody cried out. They all knew that any attempt at resistance would result in instant death. There were armed guards all around, and more on the sentry towers. The prisoners had been told to obey orders, and that they'd be okay so long as they did exactly what they were told. They'd been told that they were just going to be washed, and de-loused. Few of them believed that, although some still clung to a scrap of hope. So they shuffled on, into the opening on the front of the building, and one by one they began to disappear into the darkness.
***
“Don't be frightened, Katia,” her mother said as they walked along the corridor. “Didn't you see the sign back there? Didn't you read what it said? Work will make us free.”
The concrete floor was cold against Katia's bare feet, and wet too, as if it had recently been washed. There was mud between some of her toes, from out in the yard.
Holding her arms crossed against her belly, Katia tried hard not to bump into anyone else, which was difficult since there were so many of them packed into the narrow space. She felt wrong every time she touched one of the others, or any time she accidentally looked at one of them.
“If they were going to kill us,” an old man said nearby, “they'd have done it already. Why would they bring us all the way out here just to do that? You saw for yourself, this is a work camp. They're going to put us to work. They could have just killed us before putting us onto the train.”
Suddenly a voice shouted up ahead, barking something in German. Katia couldn't quite make out the words, but a moment later she saw that the prisoners in front of her were now taking a left turn into another room.
Seconds later, it was Katia's turn, and she and her mother walked together into a small, dark chamber with a low concrete ceiling. Ahead, several other prisoners had already stopped at the room's far end and were waiting now, standing still and quiet as Katia and the rest filed into the room and began to fill it completely. And as she and her mother came to a halt, Katia looked up and realized instantly that there were no pipes in the room, that there was no sign of plumbing. Squinting in the darkness, she tried to work out where the water was going to come from, and finally she spotted a couple of small hatches on the walls.
Another voice shouted in German. Again, Katia couldn't make out the words, so she simply stood and waited. She kept her gaze low, so as to not see the naked people all around, and she scrunched her nose in an attempt to avoid the terrible stench of sweat and other fluids. All around, she heard the rustling of feet on concrete, and the sound of bodies brushing against one another. Finally, somebody pushed against her from behind, almost knocking her over, but she managed to stay upright.
More and more people were being forced into the small room, until Katia was pressed hard against some of the other prisoners. One man in particular had a harsh, unpleasant coat that scratched her face. Katia tried to turn away, but now she was wedged so tight she could barely breathe. Suddenly panicking, she looked around for her mother, but when she looked up she saw only the silhouettes of faces, and she could smell the flesh of men and women all around. No matter how she twisted and turned, she couldn't keep from touching them all in every direction. They were packed so tight, Katia could barely even breathe.
“They're going to shower us,” a woman said nearby. “It's going to be cold.”
“This is inhumane,” a man muttered. “What's next? Will they make us live like pigs? I'd rather die.”
Katia opened her mouth to call out for her mother, but then she remembered what she'd been told over and over.
“Be brave,” her mother had insisted earlier. “Everything's going to be fine.”
Despite the tears in her eyes, then, Katia took a deep breath and refused to cry out. She simply told herself that she'd be back with her mother in just a moment, that her mother was always right about these things. After all, if she couldn't have faith in her mother, who could she believe?
Another voice shouted in German. Katia couldn't make this one out either, but a moment later she heard a loud metal clanging sound. Turning, she saw that the door to the room was being shut, and in an instant the light was blocked out.
Standing in complete darkness, with bodies pressed against her from all sides, Katia waited. A few seconds later she felt a hand on her shoulder, but the fingers were surely too rough for this to be her mother's hand. Still, she couldn't pull away, even if she wanted to. She was wedged so tight, she couldn't even raise her arms.
In the distance, outside the room, someone shouted something in German.
Then there was silence again, punctuated only by the sound of people breathing nearby. Katia looked up, but she still couldn't see anything in the darkness. She could hear them, though. She could hear slow, steady breaths alongside harsher, more guttural sounds. Someone toward the front of the room, somebody was maybe sobbing, although the sound was hard to hear properly. Katia waited, with the unfamiliar hand still resting on her shoulder, and then finally the harsh fingers began to move up her neck and onto the side of her face. Unable to pull away, Katia grimaced slightly as she felt someone touching her cheek. She pulled away instinctively, only for the other side of her face to touch a man's naked back. She pulled away again, but it was hopeless: she couldn't keep from touching the people all around her.
“A child,” a voice whispered in the darkness. “Even a child.”
Before Katia had a chance to wonder what this meant, she heard a metallic scraping sound. Turning, she spotted a faint square of light on the wall, beyond the silhouettes of curly-haired figures. Something moved in the light, and some small objects fell down into the room, and then the scraping sound returned as the hatch was closed again.
“What was that?” a woman asked at the far end of the room. “What did they just throw in?”
Now other voices began to murmur too, and Katia felt the other bodies bumping against her from all directions. It was as if everybody had become agitated at once, and a moment later an elbow caught Katia's jaw with enough force to make her try to instantly turn away. The sound of shuffling feet was getting louder now, and finally someone began to cough not too far away in the darkness. Then someone else coughed, and someone else too. Another body bumped against Katia, harder this time, and then an elbow hit her nose hard. She let out a brief grunt.
“Hold your breath!” someone shouted. “Quick! Don't breathe it in!”
And then Katia gasped as the screams began.
***
Mannix s
at silently in the office, staring blankly at the wall. He was thinking about his neighbor, about that holier-than-thou idiot Karlheim who'd dared accost him – again! - outside his house just a few days earlier.
“How can you live with yourself?” Karlheim had raged impotently. “We all know what you're doing there! You just won't admit it!”
Mannix had even been shoved. Shoved! That moronic Karlheim had grabbed him by the lapel and shoved him, and then he'd carried on ranting. Mannix had been too shocked, too startled, to think of anything to say in response. He'd simply felt embarrassed, and he'd been about to shove the old man back when he'd noticed several other neighbors watching the kerfuffle. It had been at that point that he'd decided not to shove the stupid old man. After all, even though it was unfair, he'd figured people might take the old bastard's side. So he'd simply walked away, adjusting his uniform as he went.
But now?
Now, after several days and a lot of thought, Mannix had finally worked out what he should have said in response to Karlheim's assault. And it had been assault, he realized now. The old man had assaulted him, and that was a criminal act. It was a sign of his own magnanimous nature, Mannix reasoned, that he hadn't had the old fool immediately arrested and taken to jail. As a gentleman, he didn't like the idea of sending an old, frail man to a cell, but had anyone thanked him for being so kind?
Not one person.
Sometimes good grace and decency went unrewarded in this world.
Well, anyway, it had taken a while but finally Mannix had decided what he should have said to Karlheim. Now he was hoping that the old man would shout at him again some time, because now he'd be ready with a calm, respectful, but firm response. He wouldn't descend to the level of playground pushing or shoving, and he wouldn't let his tone of voice betray any anger or shock. He'd simply explain to the old man that his job was vital, that everything he did was according to the letter and the spirit of the law, and he'd end by telling Karlheim to go back inside and be thankful for real patriots who were willing to do their duty in order to keep the country safe.
Fuck that insufferable, pompous prick.
“I think they're done,” a voice said suddenly, and Mannix turned to see Dolan poking his head into the room. “All that bloody noise has stopped. I don't know how they keep it up for so long.”
Wearily, Mannix got to his feet, before grabbing his rifle and following Dolan out into the corridor. Night shifts were always the worst, and the twinge of pain was getting sharper in his lower back.
“What's up with you, anyway?” Dolan asked casually, with his own rifle slung over his shoulder. “You've been quiet all night, even quieter than usual. Something wrong? Got a bad stomach?”
Mannix mumbled that he was fine. That wasn't true, of course, but he didn't want to get into the whole matter with Dolan. He didn't want to get into it with anyone, really. He just wanted an opportunity to calmly put Karlheim in his place some day, and after that he'd feel much better. He was sick of being treated like the bad guy, just for doing his job. Karlheim caused trouble all the time, and Mannix felt that it was only fair that people in the neighborhood began to show a little more respect for soldiers, instead of for scruffy, ranting old men.
“I'll go and get one of the gangs,” Dolan said as he stopped at a metal door and took a gas mask from the wall. “Lazy bastards should already be waiting, but I bet they're not. I bet I have to poke the fuckers to get them moving. One of the others should have herded them this way, but they won't have bothered. They always leave it to us, eh?”
Mannix smiled, but he wasn't really concentrating. Instead, as he took the gas mask from Dolan, he was too busy thinking about the shocked expression he was going to put on Karlheim's face the next time they spoke. He wasn't just going to shut the old fart up, he was going to make him grovel for forgiveness. And he was going to get some goddamn respect out of that old man. He wanted to kick the bastard in the face, but he wouldn't do that. He was too much of a gentleman to resort to such base actions.
Meanwhile, he was slipping his hands into his gloves.
“Back in a minute,” Dolan sighed, stepping past him and heading along the corridor. “Where did those lazy shits get to?”
After taking a moment to put his gas mask on properly, Mannix turned the wheel on the door, spinning it around several times until he felt the tell-tale bump that meant the lock was dis-engaged. He turned the wheel a little further, until it reached its bite point, and then he double-checked the gauge on the wall before pulling the door open and stepping forward into the darkness. Then he stopped for a moment to adjust his gloves, and as he did so his left foot bumped against a pinkish arm on the floor.
On several parts of the arm, the gas had caused green blotches to break out. The hand was curled slightly, as if the prisoner had been in the process of making a fist when he or she had died. The fingernails were broken in place, shattered as if they'd been snapped against stone.
Once he was sure that his gloves were properly secured, Mannix stepped around a couple of bodies and went over to the hatch on the wall. Rules stipulated that he was supposed to check the hatch properly after each use and, although he knew most of the others didn't bother, Mannix liked to do things by the book. Reaching up, he gave the hatch a quick push to make sure that the metal plate was firmly in place, and then he carefully navigated his way to the other side of the room, picking his way past several more bodies. As he walked, he glanced down and saw the faces of several of the dead, and he noted blankly that some had blood pouring from their ears while others had died frothing at the mouth.
Reaching up, he checked the second hatch, while noticing that his gas mask was starting to get a little steamed on the inside.
Huh.
Annoying.
Must be an old mask, he figured. He knew he could go to the stores and get another, but that would mean making his way all the way to the other side of the camp. In that moment, he realized he could just swap the mask with Dolan's when the other man wasn't looking. That way, he'd get a nice new mask and Dolan would be the one who'd have to go on a long walk.
Mannix liked that idea.
“They'll be here in about five minutes,” Dolan called out as he traipsed back along the corridor, finally reaching the door and peering into the chamber. He too was wearing a gas mask now, which muffled his voice. “They'll have to hurry, 'cause we've got more to get through before -”
Stopping suddenly, he stared past Mannix. Even through the gas mask's visor, his eyes could be seen opening wide with shock.
Reaching the doorway, Mannix tried to step past him, but Dolan was standing obstinately in the way. Mannix waited a moment, before reaching up and trying to push Dolan's arm aside.
“What the hell's that?” Dolan gasped.
Mannix forced his arm out of the way and stepping out into the corridor, only for Dolan to grab him by the shoulder and force him around.
Annoyed, Mannix shoved him back against the side of the door.
“What the hell is that thing?” Dolan hissed, grabbing his arm again and, again, forcing him to turn and look back into the chamber.
Mannix again tried to pull free, only to stop as soon as he saw what Dolan had seen.
Over in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by dead, discolored bodies, a little girl was standing upright and trembling. She was staring at the two soldiers with fear-filled eyes.
***
Much later...
“I'm not paying for a taxi when we can walk it in under an hour,” Carol said, although even she was a little out of breath as she reached the top of the hill and stopped to look across the park. “You only get to really see a city if you perambulate around the streets a little.”
“If you what?” her daughter Marty asked.
“Walk,” said Robert, Carol's husband, as he huffed and puffed his way up the hill and finally stopped for a moment. “She means you have to walk around.”
“Then why didn't she say walk?” Marty
asked, furrowing her brow.
“You know what your mother's like,” he said, still taking big, deep gulps of air. “She likes to remind us all that she's got that new job at the university. It's probably gonna be all fancy long words from now on.”
Turning, Carol scowled at him.
“I'm sorry, darling,” he continued. “Let me catch my breath, and then we can perambulate a little more. Downhill, this time, I hope.”
“We're on vacation,” Carol replied, “on a baking hot August afternoon, and you'd rather get into a hot little taxi instead of walking to the park?”
“Walking to where?” Robert asked.
“To the park. It's where we're headed.” She sighed. “We talked about this before we left the hotel, Rob, we're going to go and see the -”
“Who's that little girl?” Marty asked suddenly, looking past them.
Turning, Carol saw that a young girl was standing just a few feet away. With her back to the treeline, the girl seemed almost to have emerged from the forest, and she was wearing a tattered gray dress with several tears in the fabric. One of the tears ran through what seemed to be a number stamped onto the material, and the dress was fluttering slightly as a light breeze picked up. She was standing slightly stiffly, with her hands behind her back.
“She's probably just some local kid,” Carol said, although she sounded a little uncertain. “She might not even speak English. There's quite a large Spanish community around here. Let's just leave her alone.”
“Are you okay?” Robert asked, stepping past his wife and approaching the girl. “Do you speak English? Are you alright? Are your parents nearby?”
“You can't just approach a strange girl in a strange city!” Carol hissed. “Rob, there are laws against that sort of thing!”