Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  Zen had known from the beginning that the amplitude of his sister’s ability would have to be understood, especially if they were to use it to their advantage. But after what had happened to Eli, Ruthanne had sworn never to attempt a human attachment again. But Zen knew this simply could not do. His sister’s aberration had to be utilized. It was the only window into the Nazi’s inevitable plans for them . . . and any knowledge of the war.

  It had taken a brother’s trusted persuasion, but finally, Zen had succeeded in convincing Ruthanne to try one more human attachment . . . on him. She was to use him as a test catalyst. A type of guinea pig. And it had worked. Zen’s wisdom and courage had paid off.

  He had easily survived, and Ruthanne had learned even more about her strange, genetic ability. The effects seemed to vary, never the same for each individual. There was, however, a nasty set of unpleasant characteristics common among human subjects: confusion, disorientation, anxiety, fear . . . all culminating in extreme nausea. Zen, in his logical rational, had theorized a hypothesis for the profuse vomiting which occurred in humans only: the human brain was able to detect Ruthann’s probing assault and deem it pernicious. This imbalance caused a conflict between vision and perception. This discordance triggered the brain to assume that a hallucination was taking place. A mental poison had been ingested. To clear the supposed toxin, the brain then countered by inducing vomiting. This is precisely what had occurred in both Eli and Zen. And it was about to happen now to the Nazi guard.

  The soldier had finally halted his pace and was leaning up against the corridor wall not ten meters away from Zen and Ruthanne’s bunker. Following his normal routine, the man reached casually into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He began to fidget in the same pocket for a lighter. Not finding it, he clicked his tongue in mild agitation, nothing out of the ordinary . . . yet. He put the cigarette tightly between his lips. Now, without explanation, his tolerance began to fade exponentially. The guard, still without his flame, suddenly yanked off his gloves as if they had been soaked in acid and flung them angrily down the hallway. He dug, nearly frantically, from one pocket to another for his cigarette lighter, his tension and emotion becoming increasingly uncharacteristic. Still not finding what he was looking for, his demeanor quivering in fury, his face beaded and dripping sweat down chin, sideburns and brows, heaved aside his rifle as he would a cumbersome obstacle. The expensive weapon smashed into the opposite wall with a loud bang. He made no notice of it. The guard, his anger growing to desperation, fell into a paroxysm, a near frenzy. He cursed and clawed at his shirt lapel so aggressively that several buttons ripped off and hit the ground and bounced down the passageway. Then, in a growling rage, he tore at his coat and clothes like a starved carnivore on fresh flesh. His face became inflamed; his expression contorted in a mask of emotional confusion and fear. Pandemonium soon took him. He shrieked and moaned in an inhuman wail of anguish and lamentation. Then, in a last sickening display of mental and physical defeat, he suddenly threw himself to the ground. He covered his face in his hands and began to cry like a frightened child, writhing his body forward and backward.

  The spectacle sent chills down Zen’s spine. He reached for his sister’s arm. The guard was nearing the breaking point and Zen knew they had just seconds left. But before he could call his sister’s name and break the link between child and mercenary, the man suddenly lurched backward unexpectedly, slamming his head into the concrete wall. The sound that followed was a horrible thud, like the crush of a melon dropped to the ground. The Nazi recoiled, made a strange gurgling noise, then slumped over and rolled lifelessly to a prostrate position on the cold, dank floor.

  “Ruthy!” shouted Zen, grabbing her tightly. “Let him go! Let him go!”

  The child obeyed. She quickly snapped out of her trance.

  Like coming off of some drug induced episode, she blinked and gazed around nonsensically. Then, falling to her knees, she put her hands on her stomach and breathed in and out in heavy gasps.

  Zen feared she might faint, and quickly interceded. He lifted her to her slab and laid her carefully down. He kissed her damp head. “It’s alright, Ruthy” he whispered, consolingly. “It’s over. It’s all over. Sssh. It’s alright now.”

  “Did . . . did I hurt him?” she finally stammered. “I can’t feel him anymore?”

  Zen pretended not to hear her as he rubbed her arm tenderly. But when the question came again, he knew his silence would only promote suspicion. She would know something was wrong.

  “Zenny? I can’t feel him.”

  Zen felt the guilt creep in. Yes. He was going to lie to her. Absolutely. His hesitation came not from the decision to lie, but from taking advantage of his sister’s blindness and her inability to catch him in the deceit. It is much easier to lie to one who cannot see your face. They have the disadvantage, and must perceive by tone of voice only. They cannot see the inflection of guilt in the eyes; in the muscles around the lips, cheeks, and forehead. Yes. There would always be part of him his sister could never know.

  “He bumped his head, but he’ll be fine . . . I’m sure of it.”

  “But I can’t feel him? Why can’t I feel him?”

  Because he is dead! Zen heard his mind shout, but he remained silent. He breathed deep and exhaled slowly, as though he might force the sick feeling in his stomach out with the expelled air. He knew Ruthanne would eventually find out, and in a manner which was sure to be awful.

  There would be repercussions, an interrogation by the Nazi administrators for one. They wouldn’t rest until they found out something . . . anything. This was bad. Really bad, for all of them. But Zen just couldn’t think about that now.

  He stood and helped Ruthanne to her feet. He cleared his throat and brushed the dust and dirt from his sister’s shoulders and back. As he did, he took one more glance at the door. He half expected to hear the angry shouts of the other guards, threatening revenge for their comrade. But all remained silent.

  As he stared, the tiny bullet-hole never looked so obvious; so profoundly conspicuous in the smooth surface of that metal door. It glared out at him, and now seemed more a massive window than a tiny peephole.

  In the next minutes, Zen fell prey to its luring opening.

  He moved toward it, and pushed his eyes into position, fully expecting to see that motionless body lying in the shadows. But as the tiny beam of light narrowed in through the opening, Zen felt his heart jump! He froze for a few seconds. The guard was gone! He wasn’t dead! Zen felt such a gush of relief he could hardly stay silent. The Nazi had been knocked unconscious for a time, but had obviously awoken and left. Very much alive.

  Zen sat down on the floor and actually smiled—just a bit. No wonder Ruthanne couldn’t feel him, he had moved out of her range. Zen turned and hugged her, unexpectedly.

  Ruthanne startled.

  “Don’t you worry, Ruthy. You can’t feel him because he has moved away. He’s gone and out of your range. He’ll be fine. You did it! I knew you could!” He hugged her again, and when he did, he felt that she was still quivering. “You need to sleep now. We’ll talk about what you saw after you sleep.”

  “No,” she mumbled. The word came so absolute that it sounded unnatural. “Everything is not fine.”

  Zen’s relief suddenly drained away.

  Ruthanne kept her gaze strangely averted.

  Zen put his arm around her shoulders and drew in close. He took hold of the girl’s chin and gently brought her clouded gaze to his own. “Tell me what you saw, Ruthy.”

  She shook her head. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Tell me. Please, Ruthy.”

  The child blinked her swollen eyes, and in slow submission, turned to face her brother. “We were right. There is a reason for the guard’s strange behavior. The Allies are coming. Very soon. But we will not be here when they arrive. We have two days, and then the Nazis are going to kill us all.”

  Chapter 4:

  Outside the clinic comp
ound, the dying wisps of orange-tipped clouds were just fading into a darkening horizon. The air crackled with a crisp sting that seemed to throw all warm-blooded creatures into abeyance. Frost crawled on the outside of rural farm windows and smoke snaked upward in a burdened lift from sparse chimneys. It was going to be an exceptionally cold, spring night.

  In the distance, the GGRC’s exterior lights flickered between leafless trees like distant stars on a blackened sky. In another age, the building’s exterior spotlights might have been torches on some medieval castle; its king a ruthless conqueror. But this was not another age. This was 1945, and the rising structure hidden away in this distant field masked neither king nor ruler. Yet, in a similar fashion, it did harbor the cruelest of hearts.

  Not far in the distance, the farming town of Essenitch, with its austere town square placed as it had been for a hundred years, rose in a shadowy silhouette of dull-lit windows against the dark countryside landscape. The rural block consisted of a small string of brick buildings, all cracked and crumbling from age, which lined the only street in town. The aged structures were tight and sturdy, but had tired and worn faces, just as the hard working German folk they harbored.

  This night, only a single flickering light on a crooked pole betrayed an age of electricity, and kept the tiny square from being swallowed up in the gloom of night. The pole was terribly shifted on one side, daring a strong wind to tumble it to the ground. Yet, the illumination did succeed in casting a slanted silhouette onto a cobblestone walkway below.

  Opposite the square, a simple wood building drew up against an embankment which sloped off and cut obliquely into a field of stubble and frost-bent grass. The pub’s old stone façade was cracked with age and fit comfortably into the rest of the town nest. Its two large windows framed a massive wood door set deep in shadow under an outstretched oak eave.

  From within, a pleasant light drifted out through iced windows, casting a hint of life onto the silent walkway. Now and then, a wisp of conversation also bubbled out from behind the pub’s damp walls, revealing that some in the sleepy town had not yet retired. The broken sounds danced in the darkness and echoed down gloomy alcoves and sleeping buildings before dying in the night air.

  The Essenitch pub was always the last building in the town to close its eyes and sleep. It was more than simply a gathering place for the old farmers to drink, socialize, and share the toils of their day. It was the town’s source of communication; their hub for news of the war and the only tether to the Nazi standing at Berlin. Its old patrons were as much a part of the building as were the tables, chairs, bar—the very rock and wood which charactered the old root.

  The pub’s patrons had gathered as they had since the beginning, since their own fathers had traipsed in from the fields to quench their thirst and chew the fat over ale and gossip. This night, however, was very different than those of past evenings when jubilant chatter of successful war campaigns had brought shouts of cheer and victory to their own—the local boys of the town, the sons of Essenitch who were fighting for Germany and their Fuhrer. Mugs had met in air and clanged together in great toasts to the songs of German allegiance and triumphant pride. Indeed, these had been the sounds that filled the tavern on nights of recent years . . . but not anymore. Now things were different. So very different.

  A sickening apprehension besieged the old building like a disease. It permeated into every conversation and gathering . . . into everything which defined the rural town.

  On every mind was the same question: When would the enemy invade the streets of Essenitch?

  The hard truth had caught the small community like a club to the stomach, and all had initially resisted the inevitable. But no longer. It was coming, like a noose around the neck; the rope tightening more each day. Soon now, the enemy would be at their door. Invasion was imminent, and like swath to wheat, it would cut through and lay waste, their town.

  The thunderous approach to the west, which for days had cast a strobe of orange hues and spitting fire in the blackest night, was not that of nature, but the ravenous guns of the enemy, thirsty for blood and revenge. The heavy artillery exploded in the night sky and shook the ground in a hellish rumble. There was no end to it. Night after night. Day after day. The Allied front edged ever closer.

  On this night the cold was exceptional and clung tenaciously to skin and bone. Even with the added warmth of an unusually large fire—roaring hot from the back rock wall and spitting pieces of ash and burning ambers out onto the wood-warped floor—the building felt cold. It reeked of a pending sense of the unknown, mingled with smoke and damp timber. Shadows danced like ghostly apparitions over walls, tables, and chairs. The dark windows mirrored an orange illumination in a strange crawl that fell on glasses, bottles and tired beaten eyes. Conversation, which in the past had shaken the windows with laughter and drunken gander, came now in quiet, muffled tones—curses and slurs to the approaching enemy.

  On a large, dominating table nearest the fire, a group of old party loyalists sat tipping the last drops from glasses to bearded mouths. Theirs was a conversation of reminiscing in earlier days. Now their glasses tipped a final toast to the most impossible of hopes and aspirations: “A toast to the Fuhrer and Fatherland!” they shouted.

  As the clang of mugs died away, a sudden bump from the large wood door gave entrance to two men. Their heavy coats, high boots and holstered sidearms instantly attached a Waffen-SS label to the pair—soldiers of the Nazi regime. These were the boys from the hill, as the townsfolk referred to them. Part of a company of nearly fifty men assigned to the GGRC compound.

  As the two soldiers stepped in, the room fell strangely quiet, which only amplified the creak of leather boots on the wood floor.

  The two young SS guards made no attempt at formalities, but made a rather hurried glace at the front bar. They ordered, waited without conversation, then picked up their mugs. With drinks in hand, the pair then moved to a secluded corner table at the back of the room.

  The old townsmen lowered their voices conspicuously, and their eyes turned an unfriendly, assaulting glance toward the two men.

  The young guards were all too aware of the vile mutterings focused in their direction. As the war had worsened, and the German forces deteriorated, the old locals—these who once had clapped the boys on the back and gladly paid for their round of drinks—had grown more and more unfriendly, and on occasion, defiant. The increasing animosity was fueled by the staggering losses tallied daily within the German forces, and the need for more good soldiers on the front lines.

  These SS soldiers, nearly fifty of them, arrogantly arrayed and wrapped neatly in the proud uniform and insignia, were desperately needed elsewhere. Good German boys were dropping like flies on the front lines, many of whom were sons, brothers and fathers of the Essenitch community. Why weren’t these soldiers—supposedly the elite—fighting alongside their brothers? Why, instead, was their such a focus on this mysterious clinic, this medical compound? Were the infected solders within its walls such a threat? More so than the inevitable invasion by the Americans or the Red Army? No! With the enemy advancing on German soil, what could possibly justify such disloyalty!

  The wrestle of scowls went on for several long minutes until finally, as the strong ale dimmed old men’s senses, a gray-bearded, stout man with age-furrowed brows and wrinkled eyes banged his mug to the table and stood abruptly to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in a provoking clang! “My son was killed two days ago fighting against the Red Army!” he shouted angrily, pointing an accusing finger. “And here you sit chatting and drinking like a pair of crowned heads!”

  The two guards silenced, and eyed each other uneasily.

  “You are nothing but traitors!” the old farmer bellowed.

  The younger of the two guards tensed and glared back disdainfully. But the other, a ranking senior, shook his head in a tethered stare, his tacit warning clearly understood.

  The old farmer stammered back to his chair and righted it
. He sat again.

  The two SS uniforms rose from the table and moved toward the door. It was time to leave. From their backs, the pub had fallen into a silence equaled only by the cold, black night outside the building. As the senior guard pushed against the door, a last despicable word snaked out from the same hoary local, cutting like the final hurl of the blade to the back.

  In the next second, a stool went flying directly at the bearded face. The object soared with remarkable accuracy. Three of the four old patrons pushed clear before the three-legged projectile hit. But the old farmer with the sharp tongue? He was not so quick. The seat crooned off his shoulder knocking him to the ground.

  “You think we are there by choice?” the junior guard shouted, his form bristling and quaking with rage. “You think I want to be in that hell-hole, pacing day after day, night after night, safe on German soil while my comrades are dying on the front lines?” His voice boomed. His face inflamed and veined. “My brother too, has been killed! Do you think that I am proud of that!”

  The senior, still shaken from his subordinate’s action, reached from the door and seized his companion’s arm. His patience was spent. Now his rank would dictate his words: “You will come with me! It is time to leave! Now, lieutenant! We are due back!” he ordered through grated teeth.

  There was a hesitation as eyes locked between the two men. The junior yielded. He turned slowly to follow his outranking commander, still standing in the opened doorway. But as he stepped forward, his eyes swept a final glance at the tabled group, their red-rimmed eyes full of prideful indignation. “Yes,” the junior mumbled, his pride wounded. “Let’s get out of here.”