Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Chapter 26

  With the storm thinning out overhead, Blish had moments earlier been checking the ranks of prisoners wrapped in coats and blankets and waiting in front of their huts. Then he authorized the first hut to move out.

  Armed MPs fell into step around the prisoners, but they never got beyond the circle of buildings. They stopped and looked up curiously as a thin veil of black rose up into the sky from the roof of Hut 7 and expanded to create a canopy over the entire compound, blotting out the searchlights and plunging the camp into pitch-black darkness so thick that men two feet away couldn’t be seen.

  As the MPs tried to prod the Germans into formation, they began shuffling and muttering in the blackness. One shove too many and suddenly there was shouting and cursing.

  Panic erupted. The Germans broke ranks, shoved past the MPs, and ran. Within seconds, Steuben stood alone on the steps of his hut and stared into blackness, listening to the sounds of his men running and shouting.

  The first blast of tommy-gun fire made him flinch. Then he felt something cold and wispy touch the nape of his neck. He turned abruptly. It brushed his face. He tried to grab it and caught something. He brought his hand close to his eyes and in the gloom saw black mist curl from his fingers then shoot upward to be lost in the cloud overhead.

  A light stabbed Steuben’s eyes. A frightened MP roared something at him. When the light wavered, Steuben glimpsed the MP aiming his carbine one-handed. Steuben dove through the hut door as a burst of gunfire chewed up the threshold behind him. He kicked the door closed and flattened himself on the floor. More bullets ripped through the door and plowed overhead only inches from his body. Then he heard boots crunching away fast in the snow. More fire elsewhere. He looked down the empty corridor.

  What’s happening?

  Lieutenant Blish stood in utter blackness at the corner of a hut—he didn’t even know which one—.45 in hand, fear making a lump pulse in his throat as he waited for the next German to charge by. So far, he had fired at two of them, two rifle-bearing soldiers wearing long greatcoats and coal-scuttle helmets. Somehow, these helpless, unarmed prisoners had acquired a stash of war gear and weapons and, under cover of this freak darkness, had become a fully equipped little army. At least that’s what he saw, but common sense told him it was impossible.

  Again, icy coldness brushed at his cars and he swatted it. Blackness stirred past his eyes. He had never seen fog like this—thicker than the proverbial London pea soup and so unrelievedly black.

  A man lumbered around the corner of the hut and collided with Blish. Shoving him away, Blish had a fleeting glimpse of his helmet and rifle and, hearing his guttural war cry, fired point-blank into his face. The soldier crumpled in the snow.

  Got one at last

  Dropping down before the blackness could move back in and obscure the body, Blish prodded the soldier over with the muzzle of his .45 and stared into the gory, pulpy face, unrecognizable in death.

  Blish froze. This soldier had no weapon or helmet, because it was no soldier. It was an unarmed prisoner.

  Blish felt a surge of horror. Blackness closed over his face. Icy fingers of gloom seeped into his mind and siphoned off his fear. Aware of what was happening, Blish’s terror mounted. He screamed and leaped to his feet. He fell back against the wall of the hut and clawed at the blackness, the .45 still in his hand, his finger still hooked around the trigger. He got off a shot, but the force extracting his emotions gripped him even tighter and, where it drained him, he felt freezing cold injected in its place.

  Squirming in terror, Blish fired the .45 again and again. The last time he squeezed the trigger, the muzzle was against his eye.

  Glacial cold pierced Gilman’s brain as he trudged down the snow-crusted slope, blind in the overwhelming darkness. The sentry who had come in with him crunched off to the right. In a few seconds, his footsteps were lost in the rising pandemonium from below.

  Something flitteUd into Gilman’s face. He brushed it away. Snow, he thought. Just snow.

  But if there was any snow falling through this murk, it was invisible to him. He stopped, realizing he was no longer walking on snow. He was standing on something that had the consistency of mud. Squatting down, he peered at the ground and was able to discern only a shapeless dark mass. He ran a hand over it. It felt wet and slimy. In the midst of it, his fingers encountered something hard and sharp—like a meaty stick.

  Disgust surged in Gilman’s stomach. It was a human rib, and the pulpy stuff around it was the remains of a body. The gloom thinned a bit, and he found himself on a dark familiar hillside, squatting inside the rib cage of a dead GI whose entire torso had been blown apart. Around him on the hill were more bodies, scattered like split broilers waiting to be cooked.

  Gripped by an uncontrollable sickness, Gilman vomited over the body beneath him. The bile came in nauseating waves, convulsing his neck and shoulders. Gasping, he crouched to recover, heart pounding with horror as he smelled burnt flesh and cordite on the air. His worst nightmare had come to life.

  Window Hill Second Battalion.

  Gilman released a shout of denial then staggered away from the bodies and back into darkness, sensing something pulling at the back of his head, a numbing chill trying to suck the fear from his mind.

  He collided with someone, hit the snow, and rolled. When he looked up, Loring was beside him, lifting him up. He grabbed her hand. “I saw them,” he croaked. “My men—”

  She grinned. Her mouth opened and he saw the blackness through it. Her hand became black wisps in his fingers, and then she wasn’t Loring anymore. She was a black tornado, spinning out of what he had thought was Loring’s flesh, rising over his head.

  Gilman scrambled backward, letting out a long, drawn-out scream of pain.

  Huddled against the back of the shower hut, Bruckner listened, terrified, to the screams and shooting around him. He could see nothing anyway, so he closed his eyes. But being alone with his inner darkness only made it worse. Unable to stop himself, he was shaken by sobs.

  Somewhere a dog barked.

  Bruckner’s eyes snapped open. He sniffled and peered through the darkness. Was that Churchill loping by, disappearing beneath Hut 9?

  Chancing a dash in the open, Bruckner hustled across the open space, hoarsely calling his dog. Reaching the side of Hut 9, he peered under the foundation, but the snowdrifts were piled so high he realized the dog would have had to dig through them to get beneath the hut. It wasn’t Churchill, he decided. It was part of the nightmare. With his rejection of the image, blackness again closed in. Bruckner straightened slowly, conscious of voices nearby....

  Peering through the gloom, he was gradually able to make out the shadowy figures of men standing in a long line outside the shower hut. His heart filled with relief. The madness was over. Order was restored.

  Pushing himself away from Hut 9, he waded through the snow toward the line. As he got closer, he realized they were his men, Germans, his friends, and they were lined up—some twenty of them—waiting to get into the shower hut. And every one of them was stark naked.

  He stopped to study their hangdog faces and huddled bodies and hands covering their genitals. They seemed embarrassed and terrified. Other shapes moved into view. MPs carrying tommy guns, prodding them one by one into the shower hut. Behind Bruckner, an MP brandished his weapon and nodded at him to join the line.

  Bruckner stumbled forward, a hideous certainty trying to break through the fog in his brain. Despite the inner warning, Bruckner joined the line and almost in a zombie trance stripped off his uniform. He became one of them, edging closer to the open door, naked and freezing. A chill breeze struck like the snap of a whip on his body, and he saw stinging welts spring up on his flesh. He remembered that nightmare from his boyhood. He had grown up and learned to laugh at it, but this was no nightmare.... This was real.... Real? Dread screamed in his mind. Looking up, he saw Mueller in the line, Hoffman and Dortmunder, Eckmann and Schliebert, the dead....

/>   Gebhard stepped through the door into darkness, beckoning him to follow.

  Bruckner watched the MPs shove Schliebert through next. A dog barked nearby. Bruckner turned and, though he knew Churchill was only a few feet away, the dog was invisible, lost in the darkness beyond the Shrinking line of men, barking furiously as if to warn him where his own inner alarm had failed.

  Then he was on the steps and about to enter. Churchill’s bark was cut off, replaced by a vicious snarl, sounds of a terrible fight, Churchill’s frightened whine—

  “No!” he shouted. He flung his arms out to keep himself from entering. The dog sounds vanished, replaced by a deep, throaty, mocking laugh. A frigid unseen hand shoved Bruckner through the door. It slammed shut after him.

  He was in the shower hut with twenty other naked men, all of them talking in low whispers that slid like ice cubes into his blood. Bruckner looked up at the shower heads. No water yet. The others looked up with him. There was a clanking sound as a cover was removed from a vent directly above him.

  For a second he glimpsed Hopkins’ grinning face, then a canister of crystals was emptied on his head. Water sprang from the showers. The crystals erupted into gas.

  Around him the naked men coughed and choked. Bruckner stumbled backward, at last aware of what was happening. He flung himself at the door and hammered on it. It wouldn’t open. He whirled as the hut filled with gas and he saw he was alone—there were no other men.

  He ran to the back of the hut and slammed a fist through the window and reached up to climb out through the jagged glass. But blackness flooded in and obscured the opening.

  Stumbling back, Bruckner whirled and saw two MPs open the door to the toilet stall, but there was no toilet. Inside, there was a roaring oven.

  They reached for him. Bruckner choked on his scream and clutched his heart. He jerked several times then went rigid. When he hit the floor he was dead.

  Retreating to his quarters, Steuben had stood pressed into a corner in darkness, listening to the occasional screams and bursts of gunfire outside. Struggling to make sense of what was happening, he concentrated on the sounds and detected something very odd. Two succeeding bursts of gunfire were followed by the same scream.

  He realized he was hearing imitations. There were delusions going on outside, but whose?

  Clutching Dortmunder’s homemade knife, Steuben edged into the empty corridor, which was as pitch-black as the outdoors. Detecting no human presence, Steuben opened the bullet-riddled door and looked out. He was surprised to see the gloom had diminished. Flicking his thumb across the edge of the blade to be certain of its sharpness, he stepped out and looked up.

  The blackness hung a few feet above him^ blotting out the roof of his hut. Knowing it was waiting for him made him feel better. Seeing the enemy made escape at least possible.

  A woman shouted.

  He thought for a moment it was Loring Holloway and automatically looked for her. He saw nothing. Then the same woman screamed and cried for help.

  Plunging into the snow, he followed the sound to the rear of Hut 7. As he approached the door, the cries grew louder. Then the door burst open in front of him and men tumbled out, dragging women behind them. Thinking they were MPs, he backed up, brandishing the knife. But they paid him no attention. Then he saw their uniforms. Russians. One of them leered at him, while another swung a woman around and threw her into the snow, then pounced on her and tore at her clothing. She screamed and, seeing Steuben, stretched an arm out to him and called—

  “Walter!”

  Steuben was momentarily transfixed as it sank in—a Russian was raping his wife. Then a young girl was dragged from Hut 7 and stripped bare before his eyes. “Papa!” she cried. Russian hands clawed her breasts. Her eyes were saucers as she screamed for help. Hands ran up her thighs and forced their way into her—

  Steuben let out a bull-like roar and rushed into their midst, slashing with his knife. His shoulder hit solid flesh and then he was rolling in the snow with someone, thrusting his blade repeatedly into the man’s neck. The blade pierced flesh, so he knew this was real, but then images exploded in his mind—Eckmann and Schliebert and Eckmann’s imaginary wife—and he told himself there were no Russians in this camp and—

  Schrecklichkeit!

  Systematic terror. And now he was a victim.

  He rolled free of the body and sprang up to see who it was. It lay in a heap in the snow, alone, a German—one of his own men. Steuben sucked in air and shut his eyes. The others were gone—the Russians, the women, his wife and daughter. Gone because they had never been there. Only in his tortured, fear-ridden mind.

  He snarled at the blackness overhead, and at its tendrils licking his face. He stabbed at it, and it quickly wisped off. Hearing men running through the snow, Steuben bounded off, leaving the body behind.

  Around the front of Hut 6, he found a knot of POWs huddled in fear. He waved the bloodied knife. “We’re getting out of here,” he said. Without question, they fell in behind him and he led them up the slope.

  Overhead, the black fog was thinning out, admitting more dim light.

  If we find the gate, we’re out, Steuben told himself. And if they want to keep us in here, they’ll have to shoot us.

  Loring paced anxiously at the gate, staring at the blackness and wanting to charge in after Gilman but aware that if anything happened to him she was the only one left with a hope of defeating the djinn. From either side, the tower sentries continued to crank their sirens. MPs were gathered behind her on the hill, and she had pleaded with Hopkins not to send them through the gate. Hopkins waited at the crest, watching for Gilman to reappear.

  While the wind banged the gate against the fence, Loring began to think she could see shapes moving around inside and the outline of huts below. She assumed the darkness was lifting. Clutching the silver talisman to her chest, she darted through the gate.

  Inside, she ran without thinking until her legs sank into a snowdrift. Climbing out, she glanced back and saw the gate nearly obscured by blackness, Hopkins and his MPs invisible beyond it.

  While she was looking toward the gate, a curtain of black abruptly descended around her. Sprawling backward, she held up the talisman and waited, motionless.

  You’re not going to get me.

  The blackness settled.

  Then, from the direction of the gate, she heard water trickling. With her legs sinking deeper into the snow, she listened to the sound growing louder. It became a bubbling rumble from the ground almost directly in front of her—a sound that she recognized—

  Iraq. The water spell.

  She held up the talisman as if to drive it back, but the rumble shuddered up from beneath her. Snow split open and a torrent of water gushed from the ground and cascaded over her head. With it came bodies—men in ragged clothing with bloated, staring eyes—

  Spewed forth like broken dolls, their limp forms wrapped around her legs as she stood against the flood and screamed, her eyes automatically closing to shut out the horror.

  Something cold and wispy touched her cheeks. She dared to look and saw the blackness reaching for her. Ignoring the bodies piling up around her and the water hissing over snow, she ripped the talisman from her neck and, using it as a knife, sliced at the blackness as she would a curtain of cobwebs.

  Something splattered into her eye, and there was a terrible roar. She stumbled back, wiping black blood from her face.

  The blackness retreated upward and folded back into the cloud above. The water vanished. And with it the bodies.

  Loring looked at the talisman. Even in the gloom she could see that it was covered with a dark, sticky wetness. She felt a thrill of satisfaction. She had wounded the djinn! She set her teeth in determination.

  If it can be wounded, it can be killed!

  A jumble of sounds behind her. She looked back. Steuben was leading a crowd of POWs up the slope toward her. Gilman joined them. Their eyes fixed on the gate, they plowed through the snow, ignoring th
e blackness diving down to tease their faces.

  Less than ten yards away, they stopped, bumping into each other. MPs came up alongside, some without weapons, all with horror etched on their faces as they stared at Loring. She backed away and held the talisman tighter until she realized they were not looking at her, but past her.

  She turned.

  Positioned in the opening at the gate, just inside the camp, was Hopkins. With him were two MPs manning a .50-caliber machine gun. Behind Loring, the Germans saw with sinking realization what they had suspected all along.

  Hopkins said nothing as he faced them sternly. Loring knew he would not let anyone pass.

  Gilman appeared alongside her. He seemed different. Changed. Hollow-eyed and haunted. Without taking his eyes from Hopkins, he placed a hand on Loring’s shoulder and gently but firmly pushed her away. She watched him lurch forward.

  Hopkins eyed him coldly then rapped the gunner on the head. The gunner pulled the action back and tightened his hold on the trigger grips.

  “Get away from that weapon,” Gilman commanded.

  Beneath Hopkins’ brow, two burning coals flicked over the Germans. Gilman took another step toward the machine gun, unwilling to believe Hopkins would really fire. There was a click. The gunner’s finger tightened. Hopkins grinned at Gilman.

  The machine gun spat flame in the night.

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 27

  The racket was deafening. Germans dove into the snow and covered their heads. Two of the MPs returned fire. Their bullets punched up snow sprays around the gunners. The machine gun swept back and forth in front of Gilman, who wondered why his body wasn’t already punctured in a hundred different places. Tommy guns clattered behind him. An MP appeared at his shoulder, angrily emptying his clip at the gunners to no effect. When his bullets were gone, he dropped his weapon and a frightened sob escaped him. The machine gun kept spitting fire but hitting nothing. Loring crouched in the snow and stared. Even the Germans began to look up. A mocking laugh overwhelmed the gunfire—it came from Hopkins.