by Damon Alan
“Check the house,” Tim ordered the men. “Get every scrap of food and bring me any cotton you find along with any empty bottles.”
“You’re making petrol bombs?” Miller asked.
“You have a better idea?” Tim asked him.
“No, it’s a splendid idea, actually. It will work well with my trick.”
Harry nodded. Petrol bombs worked well enough on their own normally, but with Miller around they wouldn’t even need to light them before throwing at a target.
“Sack the house,” Harry ordered. “Forks, spoons, linen, bedding, towels, metal dishes, cups. If it looks useful, bring it, we’ll pack the lorry as full as we can. We have no idea where we’re going to wind up.”
The men rushed to the task. Soon the sounds of haste with the edge of panic erupted from inside the farmhouse.
Harry looked over the Matador while Wilkes fueled it. Garrett found bottles in the barn, apparently for storing animal milk. The lids on them sealed well. As the wall of dead slid closer from the south, Tim filled bottles with petrol until the last minute. When he was done, almost thirty of the quart bottles rode in a basket in back, full of fuel, cushioned by pillows from the bedrooms. Sheets and towels torn into thin strips provided the linen for fuses.
It had taken them twenty minutes to fuel. The lorry was running well, and everything looked good. They were as ready as they were going to get. Thanks to the farmers who’d fled the Germans, Harry’s squad had full tanks on both sides of the Matador, and four Jerry cans full of diesel as well.
The men loaded back into the truck with some food that was starting to show its age, petrol bombs, and plenty of bedding.
“Why bedding?” Wilkes asked.
“Do you like sleeping on the ground?” Harry’d asked him. When the private shook his head, Harry grinned. “Me either. We don’t know what’s on the other side.”
“Everyone on?” Tim yelled out the window toward the back.
The whistles and groans of the dead were audible now, and the first of them were starting to appear from around the corners of the house.
“They’d best be,” Harry replied.
“We’re off.”
The farm was on a road that cut east a bit, then back north. The dead left the road open, so they took it. They were faster, and the ride was smoother as a result. Two hours past that they’d driven into Belgium and the gate was prominent in the sky ahead. They’d looted a few more buildings when they’d had time, securing more assets for the crossing.
An inverted dome that looked different from the surrounding sky was to the north now. While it was cloudy over the road they were on, the clouds disappeared where Earth’s reality ended and the other side began. On the other side, in a different world or existence, a vibrant blue expanse seemed to stretch into infinity.
“Least it’s not storming over there anymore,” Harry said.
Nobody answered him. The sight of what awaited bore down on them, not only physically in that it towered higher and higher above them, but in their morale. Harry knew fear was eating at every one of his men. Maybe going through the barrier would simply kill them. Maybe they’d find themselves on another world. Maybe once they crossed they’d see Rotterdam.
It was the not knowing that was tough. Maybe they should have kept going south when the way was clear. That wasn’t a choice now. Whatever happened, it was Harry’s doing. He’d decided, because he was the officer. Their fates were on his conscience.
As they pulled up to the edge of the barrier, they could see the energy that kept the gate open playing along the surface.
They disembarked and examined it. Above them a bird flew through as it was chased by a hawk, in a desperate bid to escape being the hawk’s dinner.
“Feels a bit like that,” Wilkes said, his voice emotionless.
“Yes, I suppose it does,” Harry admitted. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, but if we’re to continue to exist, the way is clear. We go in.”
“Or die here,” Miller added, gesturing toward the south.
The first of the dead were breaking through the tree line and moving toward them. He only saw a few at the moment, but soon there would be more.
“Everyone’s gun fully loaded?” Tim asked the team.
Nods all around. If they went down, it wouldn’t be without a fight.
“Garrett, you and Jone… okay, not Jones, his throwing arm is off. Henry, you’re with Garrett. Be ready to use those Molotov cocktails we made if it comes to that.”
“I don’t see anything on the other side that threatens us,” Jones said. “It’s just… dirt and scrub. Not that I can see it very well with the distortion.”
“As Harry so kindly pointed out to me, people going through might be like ringing the dinner bell. If we’re to be food for monsters, let’s not make it a free meal,” Tim responded.
Everyone laughed the uneasy laugh of men who might be in their last minutes.
Garrett, using his pistol to save rifle ammo, shot the first of the dead to arrive through the head, it fell to the ground in a mass that quivered as if it might heal itself, rise back up, and come after them again. The next of the dead was a few minutes away.
“I think they’re drawing their energy from in there,” Miller speculated, gesturing toward the gate. “We’re the underdogs here, and we might not be able to kill them at all.”
As if to emphasize his point, the WWI soldier Garrett shot was trying to rise once more.
“Then let’s get on with it,” Harry ordered. “On the lorry. Now. We’re going.”
Tim started the diesel, which for some reason comforted Harry. The reliable motor of the Matador had seen them through confrontations with the dead of their world and the living from another.
“Damn,” Tim said as he engaged the clutch.
They drove forward. Toward destinations unknown.
Chapter 33 - Berlin
June 3, 1940
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the chaplain said. “Heil, von Krosigk.”
“Heil, von Krosigk,” Ernst and Herta repeated in unison.
The chaplain turned back to his desk, sat down, and for all appearances immediately forgot that Ernst and his new bride were even present.
They kissed deeply, surely that was the proper thing for the moment, and then looked toward the man who joined them together one last time.
“Danke, Kaplan,”
“Yah, yah,” the man replied, waving them toward the door.
As they exited the administrative office, a car was waiting. It would take them to the Berlin airport. Three JU-52s waited to transport the newly married couple, the research team, and two dozen SS troops to Ethiopia.
Rain poured from a sodden sky, drenching the world with tears. Nature herself wept for the great hole torn into her side at Rotterdam. He shielded Herta with the umbrella he’d had the foresight to bring, then opened the door for his new bride.
“Will it always be this way?” she asked him.
“For you?” he laughed. “Yes, dear Herta. I finally found you, I’m not about to let you escape me because of my neglect.”
He joined her in the back seat from the other side. The car pulled away from the curb, the flags fluttering from the front fenders told everyone on the streets that important people were being taken somewhere.
“We’re finally off,” Herta said, smiling as broad as Ernst had ever seen. “Honeymooning in Ethiopia and securing the greatest artifact in history for the Reich.”
“I have asked that Italian troops already near our destination be made available for our use if we need them,” Ernst told her. “Whether they are or not will be another question that we’ll answer later.”
“Undependable and lazy, the Italians,” Herta said. “I was shocked when Herr Hitler allied himself with them.”
Ernst put his arm around her and pulled her close, conscious of the driver in the front seat. “Great men can make mistakes. There is no doubt. And we can speak of Hitler’s
as having made a few, now. But remember to always think before you speak of our living heroes.” He kissed her forehead. “Trust me, I’ve seen the price demanded if they even think you might be disloyal. I have proved that I am not.”
“Something you would tell me?” she asked, concerned.
“It was nothing,” he assured her. “What is important is that we support von Krosigk. He is, as our new Führer, bound for greatness. And he is taking Germany and us along with him.”
“Heil, von Krosigk,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“Heil, von Krosigk,” the driver repeated, which Ernst quickly parroted.
That confirmed the driver was listening to them.
They pulled up next to the Junkers on the tarmac shortly thereafter. Men were loading crates onto each of the planes, while the SS soldiers stood in a formation in front of the one they’d be in. An officer of the SS stood in front of them, giving the soldiers direction and guidance for what he thought the mission was.
After Ernst exited the car and once again endured the rain so Herta could stay dry under his umbrella, they both walked to the officer.
Ernst extended his hand. “Ernst Haufmann, Ahnenerbe Director.”
“You are the man this is all about,” the officer replied. “Congratulations on your selection as Director, Herr Haufmann. I am Obersturmführer Werner von Krosigk, at your service, Director.”
“You are related—”
“— to the Führer, yes. He is my father, although I am a bastard son.”
Herta laughed, surprising Ernst. “You’re a Waffen-SS soldier about to undertake one of the greatest journeys in the history of the Reich, to secure an artifact that will cement the Reich’s power, and you’re whining that you’re a bastard?”
Ernst handed her the umbrella. “Get to the plane. Now.” He pointed at the center aircraft of the three. “That one is ours.”
She looked at him, shocked, then hurt. But did as he said.
After she was gone he looked at the SS Officer. “I apologize for that. She is enamored with the romance of the journey we are making.”
“What she said, is this true? Is it that important.”
“It is… may I call you Werner?”
The young officer nodded.
“It is, Werner. Do you need to fly with your soldiers, or can you fly in my aircraft so I can properly brief you on the mission?”
Werner turned to his soldiers. “Grab your things. Board the aircraft. I am riding with the Director, in order that he might brief me and we can protect him better. Heil, von Krosigk.”
“Heil, von Krosigk,” the soldiers repeated in unison with the straight armed salute that went with it.
The men grabbed their things and ran to their aircraft as the engines started turning over. The dark clouds overhead and the rain pouring down made the scene seem surreal to Ernst. Behind the third plane a bus pulled up with Ernst’s research team. Workers disembarked the vehicle to unload the research supplies.
“Does that phrase ever seem self serving for you now?” Ernst asked Werner.
“Heil, von Krosigk?” The young officer laughed. “I am going to like working with you, Director. It seems you’re aware of, and care about knowing those around you.”
“When they are worthy,” Ernst said, putting his arm around the man. “That is how life works. The strong rule the weak. We, Werner, are the strong.”
Let him think that they were friends. Another soul who felt Ernst was a man who cared. Ernst did care. About three things.
Himself, Germany, and Herta.
In precisely that order.
He walked up the steps to the trimotor with the officer in tow.
Chapter 34 - Amblu-Gane
The temple of Mordain was at the center of the hold, just as expected. It lay under the rooms that comprised the Underking’s residence, not that a king occupied the structure. Stone steps outside the residential rooms allowed the common dwarves access to worship at the temple.
Irsu stood at the head of the stairs, looking down at the golden doors with Mordain’s twisting symbol.
“I’m glad we didn’t have to destroy the Guardian,” Coragg said. “Now if the humans ever break into this place, they’ll be in for a real surprise. I’d have hated to leave it defenseless against them.”
Irsu looked at Coragg, incredulous. Then he started laughing. The laugh grew, until it was a belly laugh so deep he had to sit down on the steps. The other dwarves started laughing with him, uncertain as to why.
“What’s so funny?” Coragg said, wiping a tear. “Don’t you feel the same?”
“Oh, I do,” Irsu said between his outbreaks of mirth. “What’s funny is you think we,” he waved at the half dead squad around him, “could beat a Guardian.”
“It could have happened,” Coragg said with crossed arms, his laughter ended.
Irsu laughed harder. “Coragg, stop! I might pee myself.”
Coragg was silent and simply stared. Under that stern gaze, the mirth came to an end.
Irsu stood and looked at the doors. It felt good to enjoy the company of his soldiers before what was probably the final trial that awaited them.
“Here we go,” he said. “If there isn’t a way to open the gate in here, then we’re probably going to starve before we find it.”
“This place is huge,” one of the dwarves agreed.
A few steps downward and a small landing later, the handles for the great gold doors loomed large in Irsu’s face.
“Here goes,” he grunted as he grabbed one, expecting to have to wrestle it open.
Instead the door opened with ease, and Irsu almost fell down. The dwarven engineering, ten thousand years on, worked perfectly and the door, heavier than a war wagon, glided on its hinges.
Inside lights, dormant for many lifetimes, sprang into existence and illuminated a stunning room. Dwarven priestly magic, long inert on Earth, reasserted itself into the world of the humans.
Still, it was magic, and words of unease passed between the soldiers.
Irsu, on edge, knew he had to go in first.
Crossing the threshold felt like the bravest thing he’d ever done. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
With reason.
The room was two hundred cubic horats of hollow space. More steps led down to the main floor of the temple. At the center a dry fountain, with a carved image of Mordain’s two manifestations, rose upward toward the ceiling. A platform, from which priests would give sermons, circled the fountain a few feet above the lowest point of the temple. Stone bleachers circled that platform after a small expanse of flat floor.
Gold and jewels glistened in the light from the glow globes floating below the ceiling. Along the wall were recesses. Irsu recognized it, the wall was a crypt wall, where notable dead would rest for a while before being burned, so family and admirers could pay last respects and celebrate the life of a hero. The sanctified ground would prevent the dead from returning to life in most cases.
But apparently not in this case.
Three of the crypts were inhabited. Three armored and armed dwarven corpses crawled out of their holes on the far side of the room.
“Skuldors,” Coragg said.
“What?”
“Crypt guardians. Soldiers who voluntarily stay past death to serve. They protect this place. We’re in for it.”
“Great,” Irsu sighed. “That means a lot since you think we could take the Guardian.” He turned to his troops. “The unwounded fight these abominations. Three squads of at least four, one on each of the… what are they again?”
“Skuldors,” Coragg replied.
“Skuldors,” Irsu repeated. “Have at them!”
The dwarves charged down the bleachers, toward the other side of the room. The skuldors did the same, with a lot less noise. The two sides met on the level floor between the platform and the bleachers.
Irsu’s first impression was that the things looked fragile. The armor, which probably fit fine
in life, rattled against desiccated skin and bones. The weapons of the skuldors, two axes and an ancient kopesh, caused dust to fall from the hands of the guardians with each twist or movement. All three bore shields as well.
His first impression was the wrong impression.
Irsu’s group fought the kopesh guardian, who’s first act was to slip nimbly downward and hack at Irsu’s feet. That forced him to jump, and as he did the creature’s shield arm hammered him with the flat of the shield. Irsu was knocked down and slid a good distance back, stopped by the rise of the first bleacher.
Stars flashed in front of him, and he wondered how the breastplate of his armor wasn’t flat now.
Good stuff, dwarven armor. And his was some of the best.
He jumped up despite wanting to lay there, and then surged back into the fight. The creature was brutalizing Coragg and two of the soldiers. Two soldiers in other squads were already on the ground.
Numo was off doing something unrelated to the combat near the center of the room, standing still as weapons flashed nearby.
“Numo, get your blade swinging,” Irsu ordered.
The scout was reading something written on the base of the fountain. This was not the time for the strange dwarf to satisfy curious urges.
The creature facing Irsu’s team of four swiveled to face Irsu just as he arrived back into the combat. It must have sensed Irsu’s threat magically because any eyes it once had were long gone.
Irsu raised his own shield and swung his axe in an overhead swing, the blade cracked down against the creature. As he did so the creature thrust forward with its kopesh, a move Irsu blocked with his shield.
Or so he thought.
The kopesh’s tip, surprisingly sharp and strong after so long in darkness, pierced the shield and tore into Irsu’s arm. The blade went through leather and skin, deep into muscle. Warm blood welled up from his body, spilling onto the floor.
“NO!” Coragg yelled, looking into Irsu’s face.
Coragg attacked with new ferocity.
The creature pulled on the sword embedded in Irsu’s shield, trying to block the attacks of the battle raging dwarf. It succeeded in jerking Irsu forward, but not in releasing the weapon from Irsu’s shield.