by Jaxon Reed
Rick shared another glance with Angela. He whispered, “Stay here.”
He cycled the bolt on the submachine gun and jumped out of the alcove. Before him a group of six Nazis stopped in surprise. He squeezed the trigger.
Burrrrrrrrrp! Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!
The guards tumbled down. One pulled out his sidearm and fired back. Rick focused his fire on him.
Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!
The last of his shells clinked to the floor as the magazine emptied. Rick smiled at Angela and said, “You can come out now.”
She stepped from the alcove and grimaced slightly at the bloody pile of bodies on the floor. Then she looked at Rick and realized he was bleeding, too.
“You’ve been shot!”
He looked down at the hole in his tuxedo jacket and the red splotch on his white shirt.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “That’s not going to kill me.”
“Don’t worry about it? It’s in your side!”
“Yeah, it hurts. But seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll be alright.”
He led the way down the hall, stopping to grab a fresh ammunition magazine from one of the fallen guards.
He chuckled and said, “This really is a lot like Castle Wolfenstein.”
7
“Everybody just stand back! Stand back, and calm down!”
Smitty did not pause to reflect on the fact his shouted commands did not sound calm at all. Nonetheless, he held his arms out to either side, as if to prevent the Texas marines crouched behind him, guns drawn, from moving forward.
In the middle of the room the strange crackling dark shape floated in the air, twisting and turning like a giant amoeba, casting weird reflections of black light around the basement that bounced off ENIAC’s metal cabinets.
“Do you want us to shoot it, sir?”
The marine corporal was a short but stout young man, full of fire and venom. An embassy post was likely too boring for him, Smitty thought. Clearly he and the other marines were willing to engage the threat in the only way they knew how: with force.
“No, Corporal. I do not want you to shoot it,” Smitty said, his voice only shaking a little.
The apparition that had stolen his clipboard came back a quarter hour ago. This time it stayed, floating in place and larger than ever. A technician saw it and ran for help. By the time Smitty arrived, the younger man had alerted the marines guarding the embassy.
Personally, Smitty wished the marines were not present. Their guns could shoot out any number of hard-to-replace parts. ENIAC could go down for a month or more if they damaged too many circuits. Replacement parts had to come all the way from Dallas.
“Now look,” he said, turning to address the corporal and his men. “Bullets are obviously going to sail right through that . . . whatever it is. So, don’t shoot. You’ll only end up hurting equipment or people.”
The corporal raised his eyebrows, considering the wisdom of Smitty’s remarks. He lowered his firearm to point at the floor.
“You heard Mr. Smitty, men. Stand down. But keep a close eye on it. If it makes a threatening move, blaze away!”
The guns came down, all together.
Smitty said, “I seriously doubt anything’s going to—”
“Heads up!”
Something flapped toward them, sailing through the air. Just as suddenly, the black, twisting shape seemed to collapse on itself.
WHUMPF!
Everyone fell down flat as a rush of air passed over them. Something skittered across the floor, sliding to a stop in front of Smitty’s face.
“My clipboard! But, it’s broken.”
He picked it up then stood as the marines around him pulled themselves off the floor, too. The corporal looked over Smitty’s shoulder and said, “That’s only half a clipboard.”
“Yeah,” Smitty said, thoughtfully. “I bet it got chopped off when that thing disappeared. The other half must be back on the other side.”
“The other side of what, Mr. Smitty?”
“That, I don’t know. But I have an idea for an experiment we can run if it happens again. I’ll need you to station a guard here, Corporal. That’s twice that thing has appeared in this location. I bet it shows up a third time. Tell your man to be careful. It seems to be getting stronger.”
-+-
Jason shaded his eyes, peering over the edge of a hill. He lay flat on his stomach so only his head would appear to anyone below. Several Indian corpses shuffled around the campground about 100 yards away.
To his right, Little Fox cupped his own hand over his brow and said, “Fifteen. Fewer than us.”
Jason grunted an assent. “We should be able to take them.”
Together they crawled backwards away from the edge until they could stand without being seen from the camp. The warriors crowded around them, along with Eli.
Jason pointed at their bows then tapped his temple. He said, “Aim for the head.”
Little Fox translated for him. A murmur of assent rippled through the small crowd. Several men nocked arrows into their bows.
One of them smiled at Jason and repeated, in English. “Aim for head!”
The others repeated in a chorus, “Aim for head!”
Jason held a finger up and waved it in a negative gesture. He said, “Aim for the head.”
The men all nodded and repeated, “Aim for the head!”
Jason said, “Eh, close enough. Alright, let’s go!”
He turned back toward the ridge, pulling out Jeremiah’s six-shooter. Eli retrieved his rifle from the horse’s saddle.
Jason said, “Stay up on higher ground with that thing, Eli. Do you think you can hit their heads with iron sights from a distance?”
Eli nodded and said, “I can hit a rabbit at a hundreds yards with this gun, no problem.”
“Alright. Try not to hit any of us while you’re shooting.”
Jason made a “follow me” gesture to the Indians and headed over the hill.
-+-
Rick and Angela moved quickly but cautiously down the corridor. No more guards stepped out to surprise them, but Rick kept his finger on the trigger of the submachine gun just in case.
The corridor widened suddenly and they found themselves at a four-way junction with supply crates stacked along the walls.
“Wait a minute,” Angela said. She pointed at a trunk with a red cross on it. “First aid.”
Rick looked back the way they came and realized he had been dripping blood. A trail of red drops led back down the hall.
He nodded and set the gun down carefully on the floor, then removed his coat, cummerbund, and shirt.
He left his undershirt on and said, “Just wrap it up.”
Angela rummaged through the kit and pulled out some gauze and tape.
She said, “Are you sure? We should clean those.”
He nodded. She shrugged and placed a wad of cotton on the wound over the shirt.
“Hold that in place.”
She began wrapping tape around him.
Angela said, “Looks like it went straight through. Turn around.”
Obediently, he turned and she placed a clump of gauzy cotton on his back and wrapped it up, too.
When she finished he pulled his clothes back on and said, “Not bad, Doctor. Think I’ll ever be able to play the violin again?”
She frowned and said, “Can you really play the violin?”
He smiled and said, “No.”
“This doesn’t hurt at all? How are you walking around?”
“Sure, it hurts. Already it’s getting better, though. I tried to explain earlier. I’ve already died. They can slow me down, but they can’t kill me again.”
“You know, I’m beginning to think maybe you really are from another world.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you. Now all we need to do is find that dynamite.”
Angela looked around at the four corridors heading in different directions. She s
aid, “Well we just came from there, we know it’s not that way. Wait, you hear that?”
Rick said, “Sounds like the band started up again.”
“That’s right. I bet they hid it under the dance floor since that’s where everybody is. Come on.”
She headed down the corridor where the music drifted in. Rick picked up the submachine gun and followed her.
The corridor soon widened again into a large storage alcove. Boxes of dynamite squatted against the walls, fuses connecting each one in a long relay. Near the entrance, a control panel sat with a clock and several wires sticking out. The clock ticked ominously.
Rick sat his gun down again and kneeled over the clock. Angela slipped her revolver back in her purse as she joined him in examining the contraption.
Rick said, “They teach you anything about defusing bombs at OSS school?”
Angela shook her head.
Rick inspected the clock. He said, “Well, this is obviously a timer mechanism. You see that piece of metal at the ten-minute mark? When the long hand hits it, the circuit will be complete and everything goes ‘boom.’”
He stood and said, “At least this is relatively primitive. All we have to do is stop the clock. That should do it.”
“Halt!”
Rick and Angela turned as two men stepped out of the shadows from the other end of the alcove. A heavyset bald man strode forward while a Nazi guard followed, aiming his rifle at them. Reluctantly, Rick and Angela raised their hands.
“Ribbentrop,” Angela said, her voice dripping with contempt.
Ribbentrop said, “When I heard the gunshots, I assumed someone would come looking for the dynamite. I took Hans here with me to help prevent any interference with our plans.”
Angela said, “You realize these things are about to go off in a few minutes, don’t you?”
Ribbentrop snorted. “Of course I do, Agent Dorn.”
He chuckled at the look of surprise on her face. He said, “Yes, I know who you are, Agent Dorn. I keep track of all the Texans that bumbling oaf MacGraw brings over here. There is little the OSS can do to stop our plans.”
He smiled broadly at them. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to depart. We have a boat waiting on the Thames. Hans here will keep you company until . . . the end. Don’t worry, he doesn’t understand English. Terrible shame to lose him, but there are many more loyal Nazis back in Germany, willing to lay their lives down for the Fuhrer.”
With a quick nod at Hans to reaffirm his orders, Ribbentrop turned and left, moving quickly down the corridor.
Rick and Angela stood facing the guard, their hands up. The clock’s ticking filled the confined space.
Angela pointed at the clock and said, “Bomb.”
Hans kept his gun aimed at her, saying nothing.
She said, “How do you say ‘bomb’ in German?”
Rick said, “I don’t know. Bomb? Bombe? Bomben?”
They both glanced back at Hans.
Rick said, “Der Bomb?”
Angela said, “Will you look at that? His muzzle has not wavered an inch.”
Rick nodded and said, “He’ll still be standing there when these things go off. Okay, here’s the plan.”
“You have a plan?”
“Sure. I’ll distract him. You disarm the bomb.”
“What? He has a gun, Rick! You’ll be . . . oh. Right.”
She stepped backward, hands still raised. Rick stepped forward. Hans shifted his aim toward him. Rick took several more steps toward him.
“Halt! Halt!”
Rick shook his head. He said, “Uh, my German in pretty rusty. Kein shutzen! Ich hab ein Frage.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed as Rick steadily approached. He squeezed the trigger.
BLAM!
The bullet hit Rick square in the chest, knocking him backward. He dropped to one knee.
Angela pulled the gun out of her purse and shot the guard.
Bang! Bang!
Hans went down, bullets in his throat and face.
Angela rushed over to Rick and kneeled beside him.
“Are you alright?”
Rick’s eyes fluttered opened. He groaned in pain and said, “The bomb!”
“Oh! Right!”
Angela stood up and rushed back to the clock.
She said, “It’s built into the console! I can’t just reach around and stop it!”
She tried to twist off the glass plate over the clock’s face.
The second hand rounded the twelve, as the long hand came within one minute of touching the metal switch sticking up out of the dial.
Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick!
“How do you get the glass off, Rick? Should I just cut the wire? I don’t have anything to cut it with. Rick! I’ve got 30 seconds to figure this out!”
In response, Rick groaned again.
Tick! Tick! Tick! Tick!
She said, “Aw, gee.”
Angela pulled the gun out of her purse again and held it up against the clock’s face.
Bang!
She tensed, her free hand covering her face, waiting for an explosion. Nothing happened. She opened one eye, then another. The ticking stopped.
Rick groaned again. He painfully pulled himself to his feet. Angela ran to him, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder to help him up.
“That’s not bad,” Rick said, looking at the shot-up clock. “When all you have is a hammer, smash the problem to bits. Or, a gun in your case.”
“I couldn’t figure out how to stop it any faster.”
He carefully picked through the shattered glass on the destroyed clock, and bent the minute hand back so it wouldn’t accidentally touch the detonator rod.
Angela said. “Good idea. I didn’t think of that.”
Rick chuckled and said, “Honestly, I would have shot it up, too.”
They heard a commotion down the hall and MacGraw stepped into the alcove, followed by several other Texans in tuxedos and ball gowns. Everybody carried revolvers like Angela’s.
MacGraw stopped and took in the dead German guard along with all the dynamite lined up along the walls.
“What in tarnation? And good gravy, boy! How many times were you shot? You need a doctor, pronto!”
“I’m alright,” Rick said. “But that bomb is still armed. Angela disabled the clock, but somebody who knows their way around explosives needs to look at it and defuse the thing.”
“Horton! Git over here, boy! You know your way around explosives.”
One of the men, a young swarthy fellow with dark hair, tucked his gun in a jacket holster and made his way to the timer console.
MacGraw said, “Everybody else, let’s go back upstairs. The party’s over as far as I’m concerned.”
In the distance, a siren wailed. Slow and low at first, it picked up speed and volume.
Angela said, “What’s that?”
Rick said, “An air raid siren. If I had to guess, I’d say the Blitz is starting.”
8
Blam!
“That’s six,” Jason said to himself as another zombie collapsed. He turned and kicked one rushing him, hard in the chest. He swung open the revolver’s cylinder and ejected the shells. He shoved fresh bullets in the chambers, snapped the cylinder shut with a flick of his wrist, and cocked the gun again just as the zombie recovered and lumbered toward him again.
Blam!
He turned to see what else he could shoot. All around the campsite zombies lay still, reduced to fetid mounds of rotting flesh with arrows and gunshot wounds in their heads. Several living Indians held bowstrings taught, arrows ready, also looking for something to shoot.
Little Fox turned toward Jason and lowered his bow. He gave a tentative smile, then his smile faltered as his eyes shifted behind Jason.
Jason turned just in time to see a fallen zombie, arrows sticking out of its neck and chin, reach out for the back of Jason’s shirt.
Kerpow!
Its head popped open like a rott
en melon, splattering Jason’s legs with old blood and bits of brain. Jason looked up and saw Eli with the rifle some distance away on higher ground. Eli waved at him. Jason gave him a thumbs up sign.
The Indians, led by Little Fox, gathered around Jason. Everybody turned toward the medicine man’s wigwam on the edge of the campsite.
Jason cocked the revolver and pulled out his iron knife.
He nodded at Little Fox and said, “Call him out. Tell your men to be prepared. He won’t go down as easily as the dead ones.”
Little Fox nodded, and began rattling off orders. The men dispersed, taking positions in a wide arc around the wigwam. A couple of them circled to take up positions covering the back, on either side.
When they were ready, Little Fox nodded at Jason then lifted up his voice and called for the medicine man to come out and face them.
At first, nothing happened. A slight breeze caused the leather flap covering the wigwam’s entrance to rustle slightly, but nothing indicated a presence inside.
Little Fox repeated his challenge, this time adding a lengthy diatribe that grew notably sharper in tone.
When he finished he smiled apologetically at Jason and said, “I insulted his ancestors. And his mother.”
Jason shrugged. “Whatever works.”
Someone inside screamed, a loud guttural roar, and Broken Hand burst through the flap.
Jason’s split second impression was one of an old man who hadn’t bathed in weeks. Wild, unkempt hair above an equally rough beard, stained leather tunic and breeches, with one milky eye roving in rage at the men surrounding him.
Worse, the smell of death emanated from him, enhanced by the recently opened flap. It spread out in a noxious cloud, mixing with the decaying corpses on the ground and smothering everyone’s senses.
Broken Hand mumbled an incantation, and gripped his forearm above the golden bracelet. A band of yellow light burst in a circle around his arm just as Jason shot him in the head. The twang of several bowstrings snapped simultaneously.
Broken Hand collapsed, falling backward with arrows in his face, neck, and chest. The circle of yellow light died with him.
Jason approached the body, keeping his eyes on the bracelet. He cautiously poked Broken Hand’s forearm with the iron blade, twisting it over so he could see the bottom of the trinket. It appeared to be about two inches thick, with stubby knobs surrounding the bracelet’s outer layer. It connected seamlessly in one solid circle to Broken Hand’s wrist, even in death.