The Wolf's Hour

by Robert R. McCammon

  Michael returned to the forest’s edge and chose his spot. He began to dig a hole beneath the fence; for this task, a wolf’s paws were superior to human hands. Still, the ground was full of small rocks and it was strenuous work. But the hole grew, and when it was large enough, Michael pressed his belly to the earth and clawed himself under the fence. He stood up, on all fours, and glanced around. No soldiers in sight. He ran into the nearest alley, heading toward the heartbeat with a shadow’s silence.

  He smelled and heard the truck coming before it turned into the alley behind him, and he leaped around a corner and flung himself flat before the headlights found him. The truck passed; in its backwash, Michael caught a sour odor of sweat and fear: a zoolike smell he associated instantly with Falkenhausen. He got up and followed the truck at a respectful distance.

  The truck paused before a long building with shuttered windows. A corrugated metal gate was drawn up from within, and harsh light spilled out. The truck pulled into the portal, and a few seconds later the corrugated metal began to clatter down again. It fell, sealing off the light.

  Michael’s gaze found a ladder, running up the building’s side to a catwalk about twenty feet above. The catwalk continued along the center of the roof. There was no time for deliberation. He found a group of oilcans nearby and crouched behind them. When the change was done and his white skin tingled with the cold, he stood up, ran to the metal-runged ladder, and quickly scaled it, something that a man’s hands and feet could do but a wolf’s paws could not. The catwalk went on to the next structure, but on this building’s roof there was an entry door. Michael tried it, and the knob turned. He opened the door, found himself in a stairwell, and started down.

  He emerged into a workshop of some kind, with a conveyor belt and hoists just below the roof. There were stacks of crates and oil drums, and a couple of heavy load-pulling machines standing about. Michael could hear voices; all the activity was down at the other end of the long building. He carefully wound his way through the equipment, and instantly crouched down behind a rack full of copper tubing when he heard an irritated voice say, “This man can’t work! My God, look at those hands! Palsied like an old woman! I said bring me men who can use saws and hammers!”

  Michael knew that voice. He looked out from his hiding place, and saw Colonel Jerek Blok.

  The hulking Boots stood beside his master. Blok was shouting into the face of a German officer who had flushed crimson, and to their left stood a skinny man in the baggy gray uniform of a POW. The prisoner’s hands were not only palsied, they were gnarled by malnutrition. Beyond those four men stood seven other prisoners, five men and two women. On a large table were bottles of nails, an assortment of hammers and saws, and nearby a pile of timbers. The truck, flanked by two soldiers with rifles, was positioned near the metal gate.

  “Oh, take this wretch back to his hole!” Blok gave the prisoner a disdainful shove. “We’ll have to use what we’ve got!” As the officer pushed the POW back to the truck, Blok put his hands on his hips and addressed the others. “I trust you are all well and eager to work. Yes?” He smiled, and his silver teeth threw a spark of light. There was no response from the prisoners, their faces pale and emotionless. “You gentlemen—and ladies—have been selected from the others because your records indicate a familiarity with carpentry. We are therefore going to do some woodcraft this morning. Twenty-four crates, built to the specifications as follows.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Thirty-two inches in length, sixteen inches in height, sixteen inches in width. There will be no deviations from this formula. These crates will be lined with rubber. The points of all nails will be blunted once they are hammered in. All rough edges will be sanded to a uniform smoothness. The lids will be double-hinged and padlocked instead of nailed shut.” He gave the list to Boots, who went about nailing it up on a bulletin board for all to see. “Moreover,” Blok continued, “these crates will be inspected at the end of sixteen hours. Any not passing my inspection will be broken and its creator made to begin anew. Questions?” He waited. Of course there were none. “Thank you for your attention,” he said, and strode toward the metal gate with Boots right behind him.

  The gate was being drawn up by the two guards, and the truck driver was backing it out with the officer and the palsied POW aboard. Blok did not attempt to hitch a ride on the truck, but he and Boots followed it out and then the metal gate was closed again. One of the guards shouted, “Get to work, you lazy shits!” to the prisoners, and the other strolled over to a woman and poked at her behind with the barrel of his rifle. A frail-looking man with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses took the first step toward the worktable, then a younger man followed. When all the prisoners were moving—sluggishly, their minds and bodies beaten—the two guards sat down at a table and began to play cards.

  Michael slipped back to the stairwell the way he’d come, ascended to the roof and then to the ladder again. On the ground he crouched behind the oilcans once more and grew a warm coat. His joints throbbed with the stress of so many changes within such a short time, and his muscles were sore, but he was ready to run again. He came out from his hiding place and sniffed the air. Through the multitude of scents he found the lemony tang of Jerek Blok’s hair pomade, and that was the trail he followed.

  He turned a corner and saw Blok and Boots walking briskly just ahead. He followed them, slinking low. Twenty-four crates, Michael thought. Lined with rubber. What would go into those crates? It had occurred to him that the crates were about the size needed to hold a small shell, rocket, or bomb. The big transport plane out on the runway must be here to carry the loaded crates to wherever Iron Fist was hangared.

  Michael’s blood pounded in his veins. He had the killing desire. Taking Blok and Boots would be a simple matter, here in this alley, though both men wore holsters and pistols. It would be a balm to the soul to tear Boots’s throat out and spit in his face. But he held himself back; his mission was to find out where Iron Fist was, and what kind of horror Dr. Hildebrand had created. First the mission, then he would feed his desire.

  He followed the men to a two-storied concrete blockhouse near the center of the plant. Again, the windows were shuttered. Michael watched as Blok and Boots climbed a metal staircase and went through a second-floor doorway. The door closed behind them. Michael crouched down, waiting to see if they’d come out, but the minutes ticked past and they did not. It would be dawn in two hours. It was time to get back to Wolftown.

  Michael returned to the place where he’d dug his way in. This time he dug the hole deeper so a human body might crawl under. Dirt flew from beneath his claws, and then he eased beneath the fence and ran into the woods.

  The yellow wolf, who thought herself crafty, came out of the underbrush and followed off to the side. Michael outdistanced her, wanting to reach his equipment and change before she could get too close.

  On two legs, dressed and with his backpack on and the Schmeisser strapped to his shoulder, Michael sprinted along the road back through Wolftown. Chesna rose up from where she’d been hiding behind a wall of crumbling stones, her machine gun aimed at the approaching figure. It was Michael, she saw in another moment. He had dirt all over his face.

  “I’ve found a way in,” he told her. “Let’s go.”

  6

  The journey from Wolftown to the plant was harder on human legs than on wolfen, Michael soon learned. As he, Chesna, and Lazaris went through the woods, he heard noises all around them. The yellow wolf had brought her companions. Kitty had remained behind, to watch the boat, and also because her bulk would have slowed their progress to a crawl. Lazaris jumped at every sound—real or imagined—but Michael made sure the Russian kept the safety on his weapon and his finger off the trigger.

  Michael went under the fence first. Lazaris followed, muttering beneath his breath at how he’d been born a stupid fool and did not wish to die as one. Then Chesna crawled under, her mind turning over the question of how Michael had dug s
uch a hole without a shovel. In the shelter of an alley they stopped to remove extra ammo clips and two grenades from their packs. The clips went into the pockets of their parkas while the grenades were latched to the Schmeissers’ straps. Then they went on, staying close to the wall, with Michael in the lead.

  He guided them toward the building where the prisoners were working. The two guards would be easy to overcome, and information about the plant could be gotten from the guards and the prisoners. Still, he took nothing for granted; each step was a careful one, and each turn a challenge. Near their target building Michael heard the noise of footsteps approaching and motioned Chesna and Lazaris down. He knelt, at an alley corner, and waited. One soldier was about to round the corner. As soon as Michael saw the man’s knees, he came up off the ground in a burst of power and drove his gun butt against the soldier’s chin. The man was lifted off his feet by the blow, and fell on his back to the pavement. He twitched a few times, then lay still. They dragged him into a recessed doorway and left him there folded up like a package after Lazaris had removed the soldier’s knife and cut his throat with it. Lazaris’s eyes glittered with blood lust, and he slipped the knife under his parka.

  A knife was also being used in Wolftown. Kitty used her hooked, blubber-slicing blade to cut hunks of dried beef into bite-sized pieces. As she put one into her mouth and chewed on it, she heard a wolf howl somewhere in the village.

  It was a high, piercing call that echoed over the harbor and ended in a series of quick, staccato barks. She did not like that sound. She picked up a flashlight and, armed with her knife, went out into the misty chill. There was no sound but the waves lapping against the seawall. Kitty stood there for a moment, slowly looking from left to right. The wolf made another noise: a series of harsh yips. Kitty left the house, walking toward the dock. Her boots squished in the dark mud that held her family’s bones. When she reached the dock, she switched on the flashlight, and there she found it.

  A dark gray rubber boat, tied up beside her own craft. There were three sets of oars in it.

  Kitty’s knife pierced the rubber in a dozen places. The boat gurgled as it crumpled and sank. Then she half ran, half careened on her stumpy legs toward her house again. As she went through the door, she smelled their sausage-and-beer sweat, and she halted in the presence of more dangerous beasts.

  One of the black-clad Nazee boys motioned with his rifle and spoke his gibberish. How could a human tongue make such a noise? Kitty wondered. The other two soldiers also held rifles on her, their faces daubed with black camouflage paint. The Nazee boys had known they were here, she realized. They had come prepared for a slaughter.

  She would give them one. She grinned, her blue Nordic eyes glittering, and she said, “Welcome!” as she lifted her knife and lunged forward.

  Michael, Lazaris, and Chesna had reached the workshop building’s roof. They went along the catwalk and down through the stairwell. “Watch where you point that thing!” Michael whispered to Lazaris as the barrel of the Russian’s weapon wandered. He led them through the jumble of equipment, and in another moment they could see the two soldiers, engrossed in their card game. The prisoners were working on the crates, sawing and hammering, proud of their carpentry skills even under the Nazi thumb.

  “Wait,” Michael told Chesna and Lazaris, and then he crept closer to the guards. One of the prisoners dropped a nail, reached down to get it, and at floor level saw a man crawling on his belly. The prisoner gave a soft, stunned gasp, and another glanced over in Michael’s direction.

  “Four aces!” the guard with a winning hand crowed as he spread his cards out on the table. “Beat me!”

  “As you wish,” Michael said, rising up behind the man and slamming him over the head with the butt of his Schmeisser. The guard moaned and toppled, scattering cards. The second man reached for his rifle, which leaned against the wall, but he froze when the Schmeisser’s business end kissed his throat. “On the floor,” Michael said. “Get on your knees, hands cupped behind your head.”

  The soldier complied. Very quickly.

  Chesna and Lazaris emerged, and Lazaris prodded the unconscious man’s ribs with the toe of his boot. When the soldier groaned softly, he gave him a kick that made him pass out again.

  “Don’t kill me!” the man on his knees begged. “Please! I’m just a nobody!”

  “We’ll make you a no-head in a minute!” Lazaris said as he pressed the knife blade to the man’s quivering Adam’s apple.

  “He can’t answer questions through a cut throat,” Chesna told the Russian. She put the barrel of her gun against the soldier’s forehead and pulled back the cocking bolt. The soldier’s eyes widened, wet with terror.

  “I think we have his attention.” Michael glanced over at the prisoners, who had stopped working and were mesmerized with surprise and bewilderment. “What’s going into those crates?” he asked the guard.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You lying bastard!” Lazaris put some pressure on the blade, and the man yelped as a trickle of warm blood ran down his throat.

  “Bombs! Hundred-pound bombs! That’s all I know!”

  “Twenty-four of them? A bomb for each crate?”

  “Yes! Yes! Please don’t kill me!”

  “They’re being packed up for transport? In the Messerschmitt out on the field?”

  The man nodded as his uniform’s collar reddened.

  “Transported to where?” Michael persisted.

  “I don’t know.” More pressure from the blade. The man gasped. “I swear I don’t know!”

  Michael believed him. “What’s inside the bombs?”

  “High explosives. What’s inside any bomb?”

  “Don’t get cute,” Chesna warned, her voice crisp and deadly. “Just answer the questions.”

  “That fool doesn’t know. He’s just a guard.”

  They looked to see who’d spoken. It was the frail prisoner who had gray hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He came a few steps closer and spoke in what sounded like a heavy Hungarian accent. “It’s a gas of some kind. That’s what’s inside the bombs. I’ve been here for over six months, and I’ve seen what it can do.”

  “I have, too,” Michael said. “It burns the flesh.”

  The man smiled faintly, a bitter smile. “Burns the flesh,” he repeated. “Oh, it does more than burn the flesh, my friend. It eats the flesh, like a cancer. I know. I’ve had to burn some of the bodies. My wife among them.” He blinked, his eyes heavy-lidded. “But she’s in a better place than this. They torture me every day, by forcing me to live.” He looked at the hammer he held, and then dropped it to the concrete. He wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

  “Where are the bombs stored?” Michael asked him.

  “That I don’t know. Somewhere deeper in the plant. There’s a white building next to the big chimney. Some of the others say that’s where the gas is made.”

  “The others?” Chesna asked. “How many prisoners are there?”

  “Eighty-four. No, no. Walt.” He thought about it. “Danelka died two nights ago. Eighty-three. When I first came here, there were over four hundred, but…” He shrugged his thin shoulders, and his eyes found Michael’s. “Have you come to save us?”

  Michael didn’t know what to say. He decided the truth was best. “No.”

  “Ah.” The prisoner nodded. “Then it’s the gas, is it? You’re here because of that? Well, that’s good. We’re already dead. If that stuff ever gets out of here, I shudder to—”

  Something whammed against the corrugated-metal gate.

  Michael’s heart kicked, and Lazaris jumped so hard the blade bit deeper into the soldier’s throat. Chesna removed her gun barrel from the man’s forehead, leaving a white circle where it had been pressed, and aimed the weapon toward the gate.

  Again, something hit the metal. A rifle butt or billy club, Michael thought. A voice followed: “Hey, Reinhart! Open up!”

  The soldier croaked, “He’s calling me.”
/>   “No, he’s not,” the gray-haired prisoner said. “He’s Karlsen. Reinhart is on the floor.”

  “Reinhart!” the soldier outside shouted. “Open up, damn you! We know you’ve got the pretty one in there!”

  The female prisoner who’d been poked with the rifle, her black hair framing a face as pale as a cameo, picked up a ballpeen hammer. Her knuckles bleached around the handle.

  “Come on, be a sport!” It was a different voice. “Why hog her all for yourselves?”

  “Tell them to go away,” Chesna ordered. Her eyes were flinty, but her voice held a nervous edge.

  “No,” Michael said. “They’ll come in the way we did. On your feet.” Karlsen got up. “To the gate. Move.” He followed the Nazi, and so did Chesna. Michael pressed his gun into the man’s spine. “Tell them to wait a minute.”

  “Wait a minute!” Karlsen shouted.

  “That’s better!” one of the men outside said. “You bastards thought you were going to sneak one by us, didn’t you?”

  The gate was hoisted by a chain-and-pulley device, operated with a flywheel. Michael stepped to one side. “Pull the gate up. Slowly.” Chesna got out of the way, too, and Karlsen started turning the flywheel. The gate began to fold upward.

  And at that moment Reinhart, who’d been shamming for the past two minutes, suddenly sat up at Lazaris’s feet. He clutched at his two broken ribs and reached up for the wall beside their card table. Lazaris gave a shout and stabbed downward with the knife, sinking it into Reinhart’s shoulder, but he was powerless to prevent what happened next.

  Reinhart’s fist punched a red button attached to electrical cords on the wall, and a siren shrieked somewhere on the building’s roof.

  The gate was a quarter of the way up when the alarm began. Michael could see four pairs of legs. Without hesitation he clicked off the safety on his gun and sprayed bullets below the gate, chopping down two soldiers who screamed and writhed in agony. Karlsen released the flywheel and tried to scramble beneath the corrugated metal as it clattered down again, but a burst from Chesna’s gun ripped him open and the gate clunked on his butt.