The Front (Book 2): Red Devils

by David Moody

  He listened keenly for some kind of clue which might lead him in the right direction, but there was nothing. As he waited, struggling to keep his composure with so many grotesque ghouls now closing in, he became aware of the horrible noises they made. Dragging feet, but little other sound. Silence where he’d expected to hear moans and groans. The occasional rattle of air trapped in lungs, and sounds of deflation when one of them hit the ground. Individually he’d have struggled to hear anything, but this was a crowd of incredible proportions, and the cumulative noise was deafening.

  Over the chaos, Wilkins heard another brief burst of noise coming from elsewhere. The Americans. One of them screaming. Was he too late?

  No time to lose.

  He estimated the battle to be taking place somewhere in the region of a quarter of a mile north-east of his current position. He made a note of the various buildings between here and there, then ran like hell; straight back down the steps and deep into the advancing cadavers. He dropped his shoulder and went hell-for-leather, not daring to stop or slow for fear he’d never get moving again and that he’d be overcome by the relentless waves of rot threatening to crash over him from all directions.

  A grimy-looking, white-washed building was his next port of call. He entered through a mouth-like hole in a side wall, pursued by an alarming number of staggering corpses. He felt like the Pied Piper in a nightmarish twist on the old folk tale. He lost his footing and fell. His right foot was caught, and he feared for a moment that he might be trapped. He had, in fact, been caught by a grotesquely disfigured soldier who had himself been partially buried under fallen masonry. The soldier had a hold of his boot and was doing all it could to sink its germ-filled teeth into his leg. Wilkins writhed to get away but the creature was deceptively strong and determined, and it took an un-gentlemanly boot to the dead thing’s face to free himself. In fact, one boot wasn’t enough. Wilkins kicked out again and again, reducing the dead man’s face to a virtually unrecognisable pulp. He felt a pang of guilt when he realised the unnatural beast had once been an American soldier. Satisfied he’d done enough to render the poor bastard completely incapacitated, he checked his dog-tags. Private Owen. What happened to you, Private? he wondered sadly. How did you end up here like this?

  Back up and running again, Wilkins weaved around more of the creatures, again slipping through their grabbing hands. He took a sharp right and collided with several more, the force of impact having a greater effect on them than him as they fell like skittles. Another right turn. Still more of them coming from every conceivable angle. So many now that they were all he could see.

  And then Wilkins burst out into the open and found himself in the middle of a large space which looked like it had been the scene of the bloodiest of massacres. He was on his own in a decent-sized bubble of space almost at the centre of the area, but his relief was short-lived as the dead came at him from all angles. He could see numerous potential escape routes where there were gaps in and between the battle-damaged buildings, but right now none of them appeared to be viable options. Each exit was choked by throngs of corpses, and it felt like they were all converging on his isolated position. He had about thirty seconds until they swallowed him up, he reckoned, maybe a minute at best.

  Sorry, Jocelyn... I tried, but it wasn’t enough...

  A wolf whistle.

  The high-pitched noise was unexpected and strangely directionless as it bounced off the walls of the buildings which surrounded him. Wilkins looked around, then up. Got them! A bunch of yanks hanging out of an empty top floor window, gesticulating at him wildly.

  No time to waste.

  The closest cadavers were in touching distance. Wilkins dropped his shoulder and ran towards the ground floor of the building his would-be saviours were sheltering inside, but was halted in his tracks by a sudden stampede of the hideous monsters coming from both his right and his left. In what seemed like less than a second, his way through was blocked by an impenetrable-looking wall of dead flesh. Same behind him now, too. And on either side. His options were rapidly reducing to none.

  ‘Drainpipe, soldier. Now!’ a deep, southern accent bellowed.

  Wilkins was momentarily aware of something flying through the air above his head, way out of reach. He looked up but before he could work out what it was, a sudden flash and belly-shaking crack answered his question for him. A grenade, thrown by the GIs as a distraction. And it seemed to work, up to a point. It exploded an uncomfortably short distance behind him, sending grit, rubble and body parts flying in all directions, causing enough of a disturbance to confuse the nearest portion of the crowd at least. Wilkins knew he wouldn’t get a better chance and so he charged forward again. He kicked and punched at the vicious creatures which constantly grabbed at him, closing in on him from all sides again now the effects of the temporary distraction were fading. They surged like crashing waves, and all he could do was drop below the surface and go under. He crawled along the ground, ignoring the pain in his knees and frostbitten hands, and weaving around and between the confusing mass of staggering legs until he found the wall and the cast iron drainpipe. He raised himself up and began to climb, kicking out at any of them who tried to pull him back down. Adrenalin forced his tired body to keep moving though all he wanted to do was stop. But he knew he couldn’t. Funny how so much seems to depend on me climbing up this bloody drainpipe, he thought, feeling like he was a young lad again, shimmying up drainpipes at prep school to escape the wrath of his house master. He allowed himself the briefest of glances down into the decaying hordes looking up, and almost fell back when one of them hooked a couple of rotting fingers into the back of one of his boots. He shook himself free and kept climbing.

  Halfway up.

  His fingers were numb. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to hold on for.

  Keep moving.

  Almost there.

  Hand over hand, and he was nearly level with the soldiers at the window now. One of the yanks was hanging out precariously, gesturing for him to try and get closer. But he was more than ten feet away, and Wilkins was more than twenty feet off the ground. He didn’t know how he was going to make it. Maybe he’d just have to hang here until he could hold on no longer and dropped?

  The drainpipe was coming loose.

  The hardware holding it in place was giving up under the strain of his considerable weight. If he didn’t move fast, he knew he’d be back down amongst the dead quicker than he could say I don’t believe in Voodoo and superstitious mumbo-jumbo.

  ‘Use the ledge,’ the American called over to him, and Wilkins looked down at his boots. It wasn’t so much a ledge, more a single row of decorative bricks which jutted out slightly, but it was all he’d got. He used bullet holes and other battle damage as hand- and foot-holds and slowly began to traverse across from the drainpipe to the window.

  He looked down again and wished he hadn’t. There were hundreds of rotting faces looking up at him, baying for blood. His water bottle fell from his belt and he watched as it landed in the crowd and caused pandemonium. The creatures violently scrummed with each other to get it. They seemed to be miles below and still dangerously close at the same time.

  ‘That’s it,’ the American said, doing what he could to keep Wilkins focused. ‘You’ve almost done it, fella.’

  With his left hand outstretched, Wilkins felt the edge of the window frame. Pressed flat against the building’s pockmarked fascia, boot-tips resting on the ledge, he slowly slid himself across.

  ‘Gotcha,’ the soldier said as he dragged Wilkins inside and left him in a heap on the dusty floor. For a few seconds he couldn’t move. His legs were like jelly and he had a burning in his lungs the likes of which he’d never felt before. Self-preservation took a backseat to relief. Better to be up here than down there with them.

  His feeling of relief was tested when the first person he saw when he looked up was a Nazi, but the kraut’s demeanour was such that it was clear he didn’t present an immediate threat. N
either did the four Americans he could see, nor the rotund dandy who appeared more concerned with a loose thread dangling from the cuff of his jacket than anything else.

  Composure returning, Wilkins remembered himself. He stood up, snapped to attention, and saluted the most senior officer he could see. ‘Lieutenant Robert Wilkins. 5th Parachute Brigade.’

  The weathered-looking officer returned his salute. ‘Lieutenant Parker, 969th Field Artillery Battalion.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. And thank you.’

  ‘You’re a little off the beaten track here. And all alone, too. Care to tell me what you’re doing out this way?’

  ‘Several of us were dropped in overnight. Unfortunately it seems the wind decided to deposit me over here instead of over there. I’m actually a long way off the correct beaten track, and right now I fail to see what exactly I can do about that.’

  ‘Seems we’re all stuck here together, don’t it,’ Lieutenant Coley said, introducing himself. ‘If there is a way out of here, I’ll be damned if I can see it.’

  Wilkins took the opportunity to peer out through the broken window through which he’d just made his unceremonious entry. The yanks were right. There’d be no getting out of this place without a fight. Endless numbers of corpses lapped up against the base of the building like toxic waves battering the most prone lighthouse imaginable.

  7

  TRAPPED IN THE RUINS OF BASTOGNE

  Gunderson was losing his patience. Forgetting himself. He was becoming increasingly aggressive towards von Boeselager who, in turn, was becoming increasingly frustrated. ‘Do you really think I care? Do you think I have any remaining allegiance to the Reich after this?’

  ‘I don’t know what I think. All I know is it don’t feel right you being up here with us.’

  ‘Von Boeselager’s all right. Leave him be,’ Coley said. He was becoming increasingly annoyed with Gunderson’s attitude, though he understood his frustration.

  Gunderson stood in front of the German with his rifle primed. ‘One foot out of line and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes before you know it’s coming.’

  ‘Stand down, soldier,’ Coley ordered.

  ‘I can hit a dime at a hundred yards, ain’t nowhere here you’ll be safe.’

  ‘I said stand down!’ Coley yelled.

  At that moment Lieutenant Parker returned, having taken the opportunity to relieve himself on the staircase. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just keeping an eye on the kraut,’ Gunderson answered quickly.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I told you,’ Coley protested, ‘he’s all right. He saved my neck a couple a times out there.’

  ‘You buying any of this horse shit?’ Gunderson asked his commanding officer.

  ‘You know me, Gunderson. My golden rule when it comes to trusting a kraut is to never trust a kraut.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Escobedo said from across the way. ‘None of us would be in this damn mess if it wasn’t for him and his kind.’

  ‘We should kick him back out there right now,’ Gunderson said, like a dog with a bone. ‘Feed him to those monsters downstairs.’

  ‘And how exactly would that help your position?’ von Boeselager countered. The harshness of his accent made him sound more aggressive than he intended.

  ‘What’s he sayin’?’ Escobedo demanded, addressing his question to anyone but the German.

  ‘This gentleman wouldn’t be more than a mouthful to those creatures outside,’ said Wilkins. ‘And just for the record, I happen to think he’s right. Losing any one of us right now would be most wasteful.’

  ‘Least he’d be gone.’

  ‘Very true, but I think we’ve probably got far more to gain from working together than by using each other as bait, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Don’t follow...’

  ‘Look, the one thing we know with any certainty here is that this horrific malady is German borne.’

  ‘All the more reason to be done with him.’

  ‘No,’ Wilkins said abruptly, looking in turn at Parker, Escobedo then Gunderson. ‘I believe quite the opposite, actually. Even if von Boeselager here doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, chances are he’ll lead us to someone who does. I also happen to think he’ll be more than willing to share whatever information he has with us, don’t you?’

  ‘And what if he tells us a crock of shit?’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t? Have any of you stopped to think about what’s actually happening here?’

  ‘Been too busy trying to stay alive and keep this place out of filthy Nazi hands,’ Gunderson said angrily, still holding his rifle ready.

  ‘And from what I’ve seen and heard, you fellows have done a commendable job in some pretty bloody awful circumstances. But I really would recommend looking a little further than the end of your nose.’

  ‘I ain’t sure I like your tone,’ Lieutenant Parker said, and Lieutenant Coley stood up and positioned himself at the centre of the conversation. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d seen the end of Gunderson’s rifle waver slightly, like the sniper thought he might be aiming at the wrong person.

  ‘Let’s dial things back a little, shall we?’ Coley said, doing his best to mediate. ‘We’re all at the end of our tethers. We’ve all had to see and do things we’d rather not have since we’ve been over here, and this kind of abrasive attitude won’t help none.’

  ‘If I’ve caused offence, then I apologise,’ Wilkins said.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Coley said quickly, not affording the others any chance to prolong the argument. ‘Now as it happens, I have given a lot of thought to what’s happening here, and I know it ain’t good. I reckon there’s a storm coming.’

  ‘You’re right, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Care to explain, Coley?’ Lieutenant Parker said.

  ‘You had much hand-to-hand with those freakish things outside?’ He paused and looked around at the other men, all of them now intently staring at him. ‘When we first came across those damn things, they was just krauts. Now take a look into the crowds outside and tell me what you see. There’s marines out there. There’s Brits. There’s civilians. There’s kids... do I need to go on?’

  ‘Yeah, you do,’ Gunderson grunted. ‘What exactly are you sayin’?’

  ‘That things are getting more than a little out of hand.’

  Coley looked at von Boeselager, who nodded. ‘He is right. I’d heard rumour that the intention was to create a serum which would lead to an army of super-soldiers. I knew nothing of the side-effects of which the lieutenant talks, though I suspect the likelihood of this happening was known at the highest levels of the Reich.’

  ‘It’s your fault, damn Nazi pig,’ Escobedo spat from the corner.

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘You knew about this... you knew what was going to happen.’ He turned to face Parker. ‘We should kill him now, Lieutenant. Throw him out for feed.’

  ‘And what would that achieve?’ Wilkins asked. ‘Gentlemen, this is getting tedious. Look, I know I’ve not been here long, but it’s been long enough to be able to see that this chap is as concerned as the rest of us. If he still had the ideals of the Third Reich at heart, do you think he’d be fighting alongside you?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘But nothing,’ Wilkins interrupted.

  Coley was equally tired of the bickering. He raised his voice to make himself heard over the disgruntled hubbub. ‘Things are getting out of hand out there. The krauts have lost control of their weapon.’

  ‘Precisely the point I was going on to make,’ Wilkins agreed.

  ‘So if they’ve lost control, what happens next?’ Escobedo asked.

  ‘You have to understand that this is a weapon of such understated ferocity that its effects cannot be fully contained,’ von Boeselager answered.

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Jerry,’ Wilkins said. ‘I saw enough to confirm that in the short time I was ou
t there among them. The creatures the germ has created are not just vicious soldiers, they’re also cannibals with an insatiable thirst for blood.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many movies,’ Gunderson interrupted, and he laughed nervously because he knew this wasn’t fantasy, it was reality.

  ‘I don’t believe their cannibalistic intents are the most terrifying aspect of them.’

  ‘What then?’ Parker demanded.

  ‘I found a British chap out there. A colleague of mine, as it happens. He was hanging by his parachute from a tree, tangled up with no way of easily getting himself down, just left hanging. Several of those things had attacked him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he’d become one of them. When I found him he was in such a terrible state that it would have been impossible for him to continue to function. And yet that’s exactly what he did. Still hanging from the tree, more blood spilled than was left in his body, and he still tried to attack me.’

  ‘What point are you making, soldier?’

  ‘That these creatures are infectious. That whatever this serum is the Nazis have developed, it remains in the infected person’s body and is passed on when they attack others.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve seen too,’ Coley said. ‘And that’s what scares me the most. Every single person one of those monsters out there kills goes on to become like them. And each one of them has the capacity and potential to kill more.’

  ‘It’s exponential,’ Wilkins said. ‘Their numbers will just keep increasing.’

  ‘Until we get rid of them all,’ Escobedo said.

  ‘Or until they’re all that’s left.’

  ‘You have to you take out the head,’ Gunderson said. ‘That seems to do the trick.’

  ‘The brain is the control centre,’ von Boeselager said. ‘To be sure of killing them – if you can kill something which is already dead – you have to destroy the brain.’

  There came an unexpectedly polite-sounding cough from the far corner of the dusty room. Henri Mercel cleared his throat to speak. The first time he’d said anything in an age. ‘Monsieur... your friend in the tree, he... how you say? He was one of the monstres horribles?’