by Andrew Iddon
He quickly found a dropped assault rifle, and squeezed off a few rounds into them while they were on the floor. He looked up, and fired down the hall, killing the twelfth and thirteenth instantly, and wounding three more with random shots to their arms and legs. He realized he was down to his last round, and the remaining fourteen Nazis were in an unbreakable formation with their guns raised, and ready to fire. One soldier took it upon himself to speak, his accent poor, for he wasn’t educated in the English language.
“Give up, criminal, and we will make sure you don’t get the gas chamber,” he said.
Vulture needed a miracle, and, before opening his mouth, saw his blessing. The Nazi officer had a large payload grenade hanging off his belt. Vulture’s Ecclesia was still flowing through his veins, and his focus was stronger than ever. He raised his single round assault rifle, aimed at the grenade, and tickled the trigger very slightly, to prevent recoil.
The bullet soared through the air, and pierced the shell of the grenade creating a spark, which then ignited the highly volatile chemicals and powder inside, causing an explosion which tore the Nazis in the immediate area limb from limb, and horribly wounding the rest behind them. Only three stood up, seemingly unscathed from the blast, and they charged Vulture.
Vulture grabbed one of their fists, and sent his other fist through his elbow, cracking it. He then tossed the broken-armed body into the second, and he grabbed the third, spun him around, and pulled his head to one side and snapped it the other, cracking his neck like a skewer. One last soldier stood up from the mass of corpses, raised a pistol, staring at Vulture. He was shaking like a feather, cussed to himself in German, and put the pistol to his own head, threw off his helmet, and pulled the trigger. Shards of skull and brain matter sprayed onto the wall, as his lifeless corpse collapsed to the ground.
Vulture sighed with relief, and sat against the wall, checking himself for wounds; he didn’t know if he had any or not. He gave himself a quick frisk before realizing he was still whole. He stood up, and carefully stepped his way through the bodies and bullet casings to the end of the hall.
He opened the door at the end of the hall, and made his way up the stairs; at the top of the stairs was the door to the bank manager’s office. He kicked open the door to see an empty room in front of him. He looked at one of the walls, and there seemed to be a secret exit, underneath a large screen. He then saw a beautiful, mint condition mahogany desk in the centre of the room. He threw down his gun, and swore to himself, before he heard a voice coming from the screen behind him.
“Tony? Listen, Tony, we need to talk about the stock holders for the bathroom hygienic department for Baronium. I just don’t think we need to…” it said.
Vulture turned around to see the head of Universal Incorporated staring down at him from his new mammoth office. It was The Chairman.
“Who the fuck are you? Where is Tony?” he asked gruffly.
“Seems Tony pissed off when he heard his men dying downstairs,” Vulture replied snidely.
“Wow, you are so stupid. Ha! You managed to fight through an entire regiment of Nazis to get to a lowly banker? Your priorities need to be checked out, not to mention, you’re going to have the rest of the Fourth Reich shitting down your chimneys when they find out. Wait a second, I see me an Ecclesia injector. Damn, I wish we had figured that technology out, instead of relying on those crappy epi-pen things, or the backpack injectors that just beg to be shot at,” said the Chairman.
“How do you know about Ecclesia?” asked Vulture.
“Well, you are a very uninformed person. Have you ever taken a look at the capsules that contain the Ecclesia? You will see a giant UI written on the side. I personally helped fund the Ecclesia project, and was scolded by nearly half the Imperium and galaxy when it failed, and the specimens had to be put down.”
“Put down? What are we, dogs?” yelled Vulture.
“Aren’t you? Look at yourself. Now that you’re addicted, you need it, and when you don’t get it, you start to foam at the mouth, and go ravenous for anything as a substitute. Remind you of anything? Hell, I didn’t think there were any Ecclesia specimens still alive; we took out almost eighty percent of them ourselves,” replied the Chairman.
“Did you take pleasure in killing those innocent volunteers for sport?” asked Vulture.
“Sport? HA! No, I didn’t kill them for sport; I killed them because Emperor Hephaesticles paid us to, not like we needed the money or anything. We mostly needed the favor of the Imperium to continue our experiments.”
“What? The Imperium paid you to hunt us down? How would you know about the Ecclesia project? That was thirty years ago; you look barely out of your twenties! And it was the FEC who was responsible for the Ecclesia program” asked Vulture surprised.
“Duh! Who the hell else would have cared? The Imperium was still weak it needed to get rid of the competition; the FEC had help in defeating the Americans. The Imperium isn’t proud of it but they played a part in the FEC’s Victory. As for the termination of the Ecclesia Project, the FEC felt too much sympathy, seeing as how Fedorov is one of you freaks too. The Imperium doesn’t give a flying fuck about anything that isn’t them. As for my knowledge of the project, and my age, there is a lot to me you do not know yet, but you will have to figure it out for yourself,” stated the Chairman.
Just as Vulture was about to continue asking questions, Sabre and Drake came crashing through the door in a hurry.
“Dude, we got to get going! We got the cash, and we got the documents; let’s go!” ordered Drake.
“Documents? What documents what are you talking about?” asked the Chairman.
“Looks like your pal, Colonel Ostheim, has been keeping some of his personal documents in your vault,” replied Sabre.
“Oh, my sweet Jesus, that dumbass. I told him not to keep his journal in my bank; it is still under construction! Oh, man, Richthofen is going to be pissed; thank God it’s not my neck. Well, I would love to stay and chat, but running the galaxy’s largest and wealthiest company is not a cake walk, most of the time. Toodledoo! You will be hearing from my former employers about your Ecclesia situation, boys. Ciao!” said the Chairman, before the screen turned off.
“Well, it looks like we would best be on our way before more goddamn krauts get here,” suggested Drake.
All the Skullz members, and their leaders, bolted from the bank, after setting the lobby on fire to cover their escape. As they made their ways towards the sewer pipes they initially attacked from, Vulture stopped to take another quick look at the mess he and his men had made. He looked up at the office, and began to have resurfaced memories of the day he had been first injected with Ecclesia. He was so excited. To become a super hero seemed like the greatest thing to a young soldier. Little did he know, it would also become his curse as opposed to a blessing. He shook his head with disgust, and returned to the mission at hand. The Skullz had hit a serious blow to the Nazi financial situation on Baronium, but the war was far from over, and the longer he took, the more people would suffer and die from their genocidal onslaught.
He then set off the second bomb placed in the lobby of the bank, turning it into a pile of rubble and dust within seconds, buying the Skullz and the resistance the time they needed to mount a full scale defence against the Nazi Regime. As Vulture continued down the sewers with his allies, he stopped suddenly, before exclaiming, “SHIT!”
Drake stopped, and turned, before answering, “What is it, are you ok?”
“No, no, I’m not… I forgot the desk,” said Vulture with a frown.
Drake was stunned, but then cracked a smile, and laughed hard, before patting Vulture on his shoulder, and they both resumed running back to their lair.
CHAPTER 26
As the situation on Barnonium shone with a small light on the future, Greg was still somewhat imprisoned in the Cerebronian l
ab with the one man who was responsible for the deaths of billions.
Greg awoke in his room; it was very dark. He could see the little floaters in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t sleep anymore; he was tired, though he could not seem to fall back asleep. He stood up, and walked towards his door. He felt the door, and it was extremely warm, strangely warm; it didn’t feel that warm that afternoon.
He began to feel suspicious. He pressed the icon next to the door, which opened it upwards, and had to cover his eyes from a sudden flash of light. His eyes weren’t used to such a bright light, having been in the dark for so long. He finally adjusted, and looked upon a horrible sight.
Outside his room were blazing flames, and pieces of structure falling all around. He saw the scorched bodies of several Cerebronians piled up in different corners of the main room. He made his way through the doorway into the inferno filled hall.
A Cerebronian ran into view, yelling in some strange language, before tripping on a small piece of debris that fell from the ceiling. He rolled over, before a large hulking black figure approached from the darkness of the right hallway. Greg gazed with horror as he recognized the figure, the crimson domed helmet of the Nazi SS Elite.
It stood over the Cerebronian, towering over it; he took the muzzle of his flamethrower, shoved it in its mouth, muttered something in German, and pulled the trigger, igniting the poor Cerebronian’s tongue and throat. The liquid fire surged throughout the Cerebronian’s insides, and melted flesh and organs, until they began to seep through the holes and crevices of its body. It quickly became nothing but a puddle of melted flesh and ash.
The SS Elite relocked his weapon, and moved towards Greg. He stopped, raised his weapon, and aimed it at Greg. Greg closed his eyes, and cringed, before a bellowing voice was heard.
“Nein! Nein! Nein! Nein!” the voice echoed.
The SS stopped. It lowered its weapon, and quickly slapped its feet together, standing up tall. It then shot its right arm straight out like an arrow, as another figure entered from the darkness. It patted the SS on the shoulder, who then stood at ease. The figure was soon revealed from the light of the fire. It was the Chancellor.
“What the hell is this? You have murdered innocent creatures,” yelled Greg.
“None but the blood of the Aryan race can flow freely in this galaxy. These impure creatures defile the name of mankind, and that of the perfect race. The Aryans were stopped by the capitalist powers generations ago, and I mean for them to have their revenge. Their time has come! This is SS Aryan One, or as I call him, Himmler, the perfect human!” roared Friedrich.
He pressed a small button on the side of the Clone’s helmet, and the dome visor zipped back and into the rest of the helmet. The face of the future now gazed back at Greg. It was the perfect man—full bright blonde hair swept to the side, sharp shimmering blue eyes, perfectly chiselled jaw, long sharp nose, straight rigid cheek bones, seven feet tall; he was the most attractive man Greg had ever seen.
“Wow, I must admit, Richthofen; you have done it. You have done what the Nazi Occult fanatics failed to do all those years ago. So now what? Am I going to be the first Imperium soldier killed by the Aryan race?”
“Despite my best interests, I am going to allow you your life, and safe transportation back to your home on the Right Hand of God. I have a locator beacon in my mask; my Nazis have been searching for me since our freak tussle in the broken teleporter. You are the only other who has shared my experience in this hellish place, but I needed you to get through that so called test. I am disgusted with your ideals, and your beliefs, but I respect you as an adversary. Never doubt your enemy, for that’s how stupid men die. I humbly accept your forfeit here in the sanctity of parlay, and am willing to ship you off immediately,” stated Friedrich.
“Why not take me back to the battle at Omaha port?” replied Greg.
“The battle has been lost for your Imperium; the entire platform is under the Fourth Reich’s control, and, as soon as this planet has been turned to glass, I shall go there, and establish a new fortress, one that will truly uphold its reputation as invulnerable. Take this chance now, or be turned into a pool of filth like your friend here,” said Friedrich.
Greg reluctantly nodded, and walked towards the SS Clone, who grabbed his arm, and rushed him towards the door they used to come in from the endless abyss. Outside the door was a whole slew of Nazi drop ships, hundreds of Nazi infantry, and SS Aryans were running about, many with different crates of Cerebronian technologies, and others with corpses for research.
Greg was led to a small one-man ship. He was pushed inside, and the SS Clone strapped him in, and fed in the coordinates for the Right Hand of God. The capsule door closed. Greg could feel the rumbling of the engine, and the rockets below fired up, launching his ship into the sky. His body shook as he punctured through the atmosphere at alarming speeds.
He looked at the dashboard of his one-man ship, looked at a series of numbers with a title, labelled ETA, it said 03:22:33, three days, twenty two hours, and thirty three minutes before arrival. That couldn’t be right! How could the Nazis have gotten there so fast? They certainly got there faster than three days. Could they have harnessed a new technology that would allow them to travel at nightmarish speeds? If that was true, then the Imperium was certainly doomed. The Nazis completely outgunned, outnumbered, and outsmarted everyone in the galaxy.
The ship then quickly left the atmosphere. Greg looked through the small window in front of the head rest, as he abandoned the poor innocent research planet below, leaving the poor Cerebronians to their fate at the hands of the Nazis. He hoped and prayed that Bob would be alright, and that he would see him again in the future.
Greg was still piercing through the stars in his personal capsule when a screen appeared before him, with the face of what seemed to be the Emperor of mankind. Greg’s eyes opened wide with shock, as the muffled voice of the most important man to the Imperium, and the safety of all sentient life in the galaxy, tried to make sense. Finally, as Greg’s capsule passed into Gamma Sector, the screen finally stopped phasing from side to side and the static stopped. The Emperor was standing straight up in the briefing room that Greg had visited briefly in the past.
“Lieutenant Greg Simons?” asked the Emperor.
“That is correct, Emperor Victavius, what is your will?” replied Greg.
“Lieutenant, I have come to great despair, being the one responsible for telling you that the Platform was taken by Nazi New Germany, via Omaha and Utah Ports, twelve hours ago. The Nazis have sent a message that a public broadcast will be shown to all citizens of all nations and species in two days. Your locator beacon has just been reactivated, and I am sending in a small squad of Peregrine IIs to intercept your capsule, and bring it here immediately. You probably are going to want to be here to see the broadcast. We were told you would be personally impacted. Good day,” stated the Emperor, before buzzing, and disappearing.
Greg was still confused as to what the broadcast would be, and how he would personally be affected by it. If it was a broadcast by the Nazis, it couldn’t be good. The Emperor was sending Peregrine IIs to intercept him. Those were record holders for being the fastest fighter ships in the entire galaxy; it must be important.
Greg continued to fly through the sector. He slowly approached Alpha sector, the sector home to the Right Hand of God, and almost half of the Imperium citizens. As Greg’s ship entered Alpha sector, he noticed two almost instantaneous flashes, on both his right and left. He then felt a shake, as his ship started to hit some heavy turbulence, but only for a few moments. He looked through the small window above his head to see the bottom of what seemed to be a ship, and it bore the emblem of the Imperium. It was the Peregrines; they arrived sooner than expected.
Greg laid his head back in relief, and tried to catch up on some well needed sleep, as he was towed off to the Right Hand of
God.
Hours later Greg opened his eyes, aware that he was slowing down. He looked through the window again to see the Right Hand of God, the man-made fortress planet. Every time this station was in front of his eyes, he couldn’t help but feel in awe. This was the pride of the Imperium; a man-made planet that produces oxygen, atmosphere and everything else a planet or floating fortress would need to survive. He felt himself relax for the first time in many days. He was finally home. He was in a place safe away from Nazis and their murder.
As he approached one of the hundreds of ports, he began to unbuckle himself from his harness, brushed back his hair, to try and hide the fact he hadn’t bathed in weeks, and readied himself for a warm welcome home. The ride came to a stop when his capsule touched down.
Humming noises and the buzzing of the capsule doors began as the door started to open. The hiss of the oxygen conversion process sounded to mark the disembarking process, and he hopped down from his elevated seat, and thumped on the ground in front of him.
He looked up to see the Emperor, his bodyguard, and a few other political staff members all in their fancy dress uniforms, almost looking as if Greg was a criminal, ready to be arrested. His thoughts were interrupted, though, as the Emperor walked towards Greg, and shook his hand. He began to explain the urgency and the importance of being debriefed immediately.