by Bryan Young
The German agent with the scar was going to kill me. And Sara would have every reason to fall for LeBeau. Because I’d be dead.
I was certain of it.
My heart pounded in my chest so hard I could hear it. It exploded like mortar fire and I could hear the sizzle of Germans I’d burned alive and the smell filled my nostrils. I could feel the blood of the sentries I’d killed the night before on my hands and I could hear their voices echoing across my mind, mocking me, scolding me.
This was their revenge.
I didn’t realize the level of destruction my anger wrought, until I stood there over the wreckage, catching my breath and listening to my heart thump at full volume. The small room I’d called home these past few days was torn to pieces. The mattress overturned on the floor was the start of the mess. In my hyperventilated, growling bout of frustration and jealousy and fear of death I overturned the wash basin and water pitcher. Everything I had brought with me was strewn about in every direction.
The only thing that remained intact was the box of data cards, and I’d thrown them at the wall, cracking a dent into the fragile plaster. Thankfully, the force of impact did nothing to compromise the box.
I couldn’t stay there.
They were going to break my promise for me.
I had to go.
To see her.
To deal with him.
To stay alive.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I had collected the locked box of computation cards, destroyed anything that could identify me in my belongings, and found myself down on the streets of Cambrai, looking for a way home.
Part Four
26
I’d wandered from my room with little more than the shirt on my back and the box of cards. I didn’t have a weapon of any sort. Even if I would have had one to bring, I was such a fool in those moments I probably would have forgotten it anyway.
I stepped out onto the streets of Cambrai and the cool breeze and smell of turned earth hit me like a mortar. I pulled the collar of my shirt up over the back of my neck, hoping it would block the wind and penetrating gazes of passers-by. As I walked, I kept the box clutched tightly in the crook of my arm and kept my hands stuffed into my pockets.
Turning corners randomly, I did my best to keep my bearings just in case I could find some way of getting out of Cambrai faster. I was hoping for a vehicle I could steal that could whisk me away at top speed. Nothing presented itself quickly and I knew it was because I was sticking to alley-ways rather than proper streets.
I would have given almost anything for my jump pack.
Instead, I was forced to hunt for the next best thing and hope that I wouldn’t end up taking a bullet or a knife in the back while I searched.
There was an adage I half remembered about the easiest way to solve a maze was by taking every right branching turn. Since I was almost certain I was heading east, I figured right turns, at least for the moment, would aim me south and back toward home.
It didn’t work.
I found myself turning in circles around the same bombed out blocks, breathing in the dust of destruction and praying I wouldn’t run into any German patrols.
It was just my luck, then, that I finally spotted a motorcycle that would be perfect for conveying me across the lines. There were a half a dozen of them, actually, all lined up in a neat row on the side of a road. They weren’t like the motorcycles I was accustomed to. On the backs of each of them, just above the rear tires, were massive exhaust ports connected to a tank. I couldn’t have been sure then, but it looked like they’d adapted Aeronautic technology for ground vehicles.
There the souped up motorcycles stood, fifty yards from the alley I’d poked my head from, leaning on their kickstands like off-duty guards. The side of the street they rested on was in the jagged shadow of a building.
And there, just across the street…
…a café playing host to the German owners of the motorcycles.
Of course.
Of course it wouldn’t be easy.
Of course there would be German soldiers.
For a moment I stood there, clutching the box of cards and wondering if I should fix my sights on the motorcycles or just keep moving, getting as far from the soldiers as I could. I’d be in danger anywhere in the city, and getting out of Cambrai was the first step I’d have to take toward safety. The longer I dallied, the easier a time the American would have in finding me.
So my decision was made: I’d stand resolute and steal a God-damned motorcycle.
It wasn’t as though I could just walk up, kick the motor going, and take off. It was going to take much more finesse to pull off.
To prepare myself, I leaned around the edge of the alley, pressing my cheek up against the brick. The masonry scratched against my cheek, but I couldn’t feel the texture across the line that matched up with my scar. It smelled of wet stone and aging buildings that reminded me of the old churches of Paris.
The Germans in Cambrai seemed to have nothing to do but drink coffee and laugh.
Didn’t they know there was a war on? Hadn’t the American agent put the local garrisons on alert? Surely there was an alarm to sound and protocol to follow. They should have been scrambling to find me.
Their raucous laughter filled the empty street, bouncing back and forth across the buildings, and I knew I was walking into a trap.
Why else would they have created so tantalizing a target?
I hadn’t learned yet that not everything in the universe centered around me.
My plan was simple.
Since I had no interest in crossing that whole sea of a street with their eyes on me, I turned back the way I came and circled the block and crossed the street well outside their field of view. If I were less of a distraction, then maybe they wouldn’t notice me at all.
Before I began my saunter down the sidewalk, I took a moment to think about the character I’d have to play. Seeming casual is near impossible when your stomach is torn up from fear of discovery. The man I’d have to be was the other American. He’s who I’d have to become. He was vicious and angry, but calm and wry. I couldn’t fathom how he was able to keep so collected, but then I realized he wasn’t pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
That was my disadvantage. He was supposed to be where he was and could prove it.
That’s all I needed to channel into, the feeling that I knew where I was supposed to be. Confidence. Hadn’t Lorrick and his people mentioned something like that? When in doubt, just feign confidence?
I didn’t know anymore, but still found my feet carrying me toward the oasis of motorcycles, ripe for theft. I held the box of cards in the crook of my arm and tucked my hands into my pockets, doing my best to act casual.
The sounds of German laughter grew louder, bouncing off the stone buildings along the street. Each note of joy they played struck a chord of terror inside me and I couldn’t contain it. I did my best to keep my eyes off of them, not wanting to make any eyes contact whatsoever. To keep from shaking too badly, I balled my hands into fists inside my pockets and then pressed them tight against my legs. It slowed my pace, so I didn’t seem too eager.
With the bank of motorcycles closer, I knew I needed to glance over, as nonchalantly as possible, to see if I was being watched.
The German soldiers erupted into a new chorus of laughter. The one that would have the easiest view of me shut his eyes tightly and clutched his stomach from the pain of such merriment.
I dropped to the ground. If they didn’t spot me before, and I’d disappeared in their periphery, then maybe I’d have a chance. I inched my way forward on my belly, right to the first motorcycle.
Looking at the machine up close, I wondered how I’d get it started without causing a commotion. They were noisy and I wasn’t sure what kind of dust they’d kick up. I couldn’t just kick the engine to start right there. I’d have to be more subtle than that.
Wanting to keep silent and hoping to bamboozle them for
as long as I could, I made it to a crouching position behind the first motorcycle. It reeked of oil and gasoline and was covered in a fine layer of Cambrai dust. But there was another smell, too. Peroxide. They had done it.
Peeking my head up, over the top of the leather seat, I made sure no eyes were on me, then I set the box of cards on the seat and wrapped my fingers around the rubberized grips on the handlebars as quietly and carefully as possible, as though they could hear even so minute a sound.
Keeping my back hunched over, I reached back with my foot and knocked the kickstand, snapping it back into its up position. It made a sharp crack of a sound and my head shot over to the German soldiers.
They were still none the wiser.
My eyes came back to the box of cards, resting unprotected on the seat.
A shiver took me, from the base of my spine and up to my neck.
Swallowing hard, I knew it was never going to get easier, so it was simple enough for me to start my journey without experiencing any more terror than I was already in the grips of.
Doubled over and keeping as hidden by the motorbike as I could, I pushed on the handlebars, slowly, one step at a time, separating it from the others. The tires crunched at the bits of gravel stuck between the cobblestones and my attention kept flitting back to the Germans, wondering when they’d notice me and shoot me in the back.
Every slow step I took exposed me, and I could almost feel the target being painted on my back.
But no notice came my way and neither did any bullets.
Twenty feet down the street, I straightened my posture as well as I could, still hovering over the handlebars of the motorcycle. Then I doubled my pace, shuffling my feet beneath me. Forty feet from the site of my theft, I began a sprint with the motorcycle moving easily and silently behind me.
I made the first right turn I could, arcing the motorcycle in a smooth curve and placing a hand on the box of cards, making sure the centrifugal force didn’t toss them to the road and render all my efforts moot.
That’s when the dull sounds of distant laughter gave way to sounds of confusion and shouting.
They’d noticed me.
Out of breath and tucked around the corner, I looked down to start the machine, hoping I hadn’t forgotten something and wondering if I’d be able to get the engine turned over before they caught up to me.
The ignitor slot was filled with a strip of metal that I turned to the on position. The machine seemed ready to go, though I’d never actually driven one before. But I’d flown with a jetpack, how difficult could a motored bicycle be?
The sounds of pursuing Germans grew louder. Their boots clicked on the cobblestone and their shouts bounced across the buildings.
The motorbike kicked to life on the third try.
I zipped my jacket down halfway and wedged the box of cards between the inside of the jacket and my stomach. Then, I mounted the motorcycle and found that it was very much like riding a bicycle, but at much higher speeds.
The motorcycle made a barking roar all through the city and every throbbing bark it made, I was convinced someone would see me. I’d left behind the compliment of Germans I’d stolen the bike from, but the noise and my suspicious look was drawing attention from everyone else. My sweat-causing fear was that the American would hear the croaking engine, glance up, see me with the bulge of the box settled in front of me, and shoot me right then and there.
Or he could give chase.
Or he could do any number of things.
But I followed the signs out of the city, pointing toward Rheims.
I’d assumed when I left Cambrai, I’d feel some measure of relief, that the pressure building inside of me would ease somewhat and I’d be able to focus on the Sara situation. But no such relief came. I passed the line of Cambrai’s edge and no tension left me. I was still on the run for my life and still had to cross the front to get home.
As soon as I faced the straight road that led me out of the city, I punched the button I assumed would ignite the reaction in the peroxide and my speed doubled for a full sixty seconds and I knew that the slightest swerve of the handlebars would have killed me. I could barely keep my hands controlling the bike.
The alarm sounded and the jetstream stopped its propulsion, but the momentum kept my top speed high for minutes, leaving me to wonder how the Germans had gotten ahold of an Aeronaut’s pack.
I shrugged it off.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing but escape and Sara mattered.
I made my way through the gravel roads of the countryside beyond Cambrai, forty miles I flew at top speed with the wind against my face and my hand pressed against the box of cards under my jacket before the motorcycle failed me. It sputtered and seized and I couldn’t tell if it was out of fuel or if I’d overworked the engine to the point of burnout.
I tried to turn the engine back over to carry me back on my way, but the bike simply wouldn’t cooperate.
I cursed my circumstance, constantly looking over my shoulder to see if they were after me. If I had known anything about the operation of the machine I might have been able to fix the problem.
Walking the motorcycle off the side of the road, careful to keep a hand on the precious cargo, I dumped the bike in the weeds over the berm. Clutching the cards in one hand, I used the other to pluck weeds to cover the motorcycle over from passing eyes. I didn’t spend much time on it, merely making sure the color wasn’t going to distract anyone from the road.
With the work done, that left me the job of walking another forty miles on foot if I was going to cross the line at Rheims. That’s where they’d directed me to sneak past the lines if it had come down to it.
And so, one foot after another, I began the next leg of my treacherous journey as a pedestrian…
27
The first night I spent sleeping on the run wasn’t actually full of very much sleep.
I’d spent the day working to stay hidden. The road was a busy one and so once or twice an hour I would be forced to take refuge in the tall weeds or trees on the side of the road. I couldn’t know whether or not I was seen by any of the passing vehicles. There were armored trucks, horse-drawn transports, motorcycles, and half a dozen other conveyances that passed me by. None stopped to investigate, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have reported my presence.
Too terrified to start a fire, for warmth or cooking, I skipped the meal and slept in a blanket of fallen leaves, hoping to obscure my presence from the world.
When the first rays of the sun crested the horizon, I was already awake. Mainly because I hadn’t been sleeping. I could feel the red rings beneath my eyes and the weight in my shoulders and the ache in my feet.
The lack of sleep didn’t do much to assuage my worries and anxiety. It ate away at me and I could feel it burning in my eyes the way the cards ate at my confidence and the way every thought of Sara ate away my heart.
The next morning, walking through the pain and exhaustion, I catalogued my frustrations and concerns. The cards were a given. I had the single most vital piece of information the Central Powers desired and I was trapped behind enemy lines with every soldier on this side of Paris hunting for me.
That was the baseline for my discomfort and concern.
Adding to that foundation was the fact that I was certain to be killed, thereby breaking my promise to Sara and tearing her apart.
Every thought of Sara was accompanied by thoughts of LeBeau. If she thought I was already dead, why wouldn’t she seek comfort in his arms? I played the words of my messages back and forth in my head, both from Sara’s letter and the message about LeBeau and I couldn’t understand them.
I wasn’t thinking clearly.
Somehow, I told myself they could be together, that she’d find comfort in his arms, and I’d been replaced almost as soon as I’d left.
The first place I had to go when I made it back was LeBeau’s. I had to catch them there together. To know. I had to see it with my own eyes to beli
eve something so foolish.
And if that wasn’t the case, I would take her by the hand and run away, just as we’d talked about. We’d leave the war behind us and never look back.
I collapsed at one point on that second day. The sun was setting over the horizon and the sky had turned red. I woke up in the dirt surrounded by darkness, wondering where I was.
Delirious.
I could hear the rumble of a storm coming behind me, sweeping in from the coast. Rain. Lightning.
I assumed it was misfortune following me.
Getting back to my feet, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep with the rain pelting me, anyway, so I figured I’d walk. My promise kept me moving along with the desire to get home faster. To get to the bottom of things. To know what happened. To get this damned mission over with.
Crossing my arms in front of myself in an effort to beat the chill, I kept moving.
One step after another.
If I kept going, I’d be able to make it to the lines at the Rheims by that night.
Sleep didn’t matter.
I’d get it later.
Instead of eating my time away, hiding every time a vehicle or carriage passed by, I just kept walking, paying no notice. It quickened my pace considerably, and I hoped they wouldn’t put my presence together with the search for the cards.
But I couldn’t know who they were or what they were thinking. I didn’t care. I was a feral shell of a man, robbed of sense.
I’d take a step and LeBeau would appear in my mind. Another step and Sara would appear. One more step and I’d remember the box hidden in my jacket. My mind was constantly shuffling to the point where I couldn’t quite focus my energy on any one thing.
I stopped only once in the middle of the day to forage. Through my stupor, I still realized I was starving. I managed to catch and skin a squirrel. Thankfully, the rain hadn’t dampened my matches, so I was able to cook it before I ate it.
Sitting there with my back against the trunk of an old evergreen tree, eating bits of meat from a rodent on a stick, and thinking about the horrible things I thought might have happened at home in my absence, I wondered how I had gotten to that point.