by David Moody
‘Yes, he was. He’d literally not set foot on Belgian soil, so he can only have been infected as a result of the vicious attack he was subjected to.’
‘Fits with everything we’ve seen,’ Coley said.
Mercel nodded meekly but remained quiet.
‘So what do we do?’ Escobedo asked.
‘Short of laying waste to the whole region, I’m all out of ideas,’ Parker said, slumping back against the wall.
‘Or getting out of here,’ Gunderson suggested. ‘Complete withdrawal. Let them things lay waste to each other. Tear themselves apart.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t think that will happen,’ Wilkins said. ‘From what I’ve observed, they’ll only fight with each other if they’re trying to get to one of us.’
‘One of us?’
‘Someone who’s still alive. No, I wish it was as simple as that. War very rarely is.’
‘Thanks for the words of wisdom, limey.’
‘Can it, Gunderson,’ Parker ordered.
Wilkins was unfazed. ‘There has to be a way to stop this undead scourge. Perhaps our German friend here can enlighten us?’
‘I’ll enlighten him if he don’t.’
‘Gunderson, quit,’ Lieutenant Parker warned him again.
Von Boeselager looked anxiously around the room. ‘I know nothing.’
‘We’ll have to beat it out of him.’
‘Did you not hear me? What is the point? You might as well kill me now. If I don’t have any information, you’ll kill me. If I did have anything, you’ll beat it from me then kill me. What choice do I have?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘Come on, men,’ Coley said. ‘Don’t you get it? Those ugly bastards out there are the enemy now. So we can stop bickering and work together to try and make a difference here, or we can just beat each other to death. Whatever happens, none of us is getting out of here without the help of the others. And if you’re thinking of stopping in our little crow’s nest, then I reckon you’ll die alone up here, starving to death as you try to avoid being eaten. And all you’ll have running through your head is a whole load of questions about where this is going to end, because for what it’s worth I reckon Lieutenant Wilkins here is right. This won’t stop here. This is just the beginning of it. This plague of the undead will spread and it’ll keep spreading.’
‘My family, your family, King George, your president, your Fuhrer...’ Wilkins looked around the room at each man in turn. ‘A weapon has been unleashed here which respects no borders and shows no mercy. The Nazis have opened the gates of hell.’
8
AT THE FRONT
THE ELSENBORN RIDGE
There had been so much of a commotion in and around Bastogne that you’d have been forgiven for thinking the battle to hold the Elsenborn Ridge had gone unnoticed. Like Bastogne, the area had been key to the Germans’ objective of capturing the port of Antwerp and, also like at Bastogne, here the Fuhrer’s plans had been thwarted.
It had been a long and fragmented battle throughout the preceding month, but it had been a largely successful one too. The inexperienced troops of the 99th Infantry Division had initially been placed here in mid-November and had held back the Germans despite the enemy’s superior firepower. The Americans had been well-prepared. They’d dug-in across this wide swathe of rugged terrain with dogged persistence and had risen to the enormous challenge presented to them. They’d been stretched to the limit – physically and emotionally – but had responded with a concentrated, coordinated and extraordinarily well-directed response which had kept Jerry on the back foot.
It was at dawn on a cold morning in late December that the final German attack on the American defensive line along the Elsenborn Ridge began. The days preceding had seen the GIs celebrating Christmas as best they could in the circumstances with wine, roast turkey, and letters and parcels from home. It was almost enough to distract a man and make him think he was somewhere other than this ice-cold, hellish place for a while.
Almost.
The Nazis came pouring out of the forest north of Rocherath, loaded up with kit and ready to depose the Americans from their positions.
Not a chance.
They were met with a volley of shells which rained down on them, and by the time the dust and smoke cleared, the fields were filled with German bodies.
There was much rejoicing in the American ranks. A small but crucial victory against all the odds. It felt like something of an analogy for the larger battles taking place in the Ardennes.
The muted celebrations in the allied ranks were short-lived.
Private Billy Bowker, a kid from Wyoming who was straight out of school and straight into battle, lifted his head from his foxhole once the noise had died down and looked around. His daddy had always said that if something seemed too easy, then the job probably wasn’t finished yet. He thought that must be the case this morning. He’d taken out a couple of krauts himself with his weapon when they’d managed to get this far through the chaos but, for the most part, the shells had done all the damage.
Bowker had heard the stories, of course, and he’d talked at length to a couple of boys who’d seen and fought them first-hand, but nothing came close to the gut-wrenching fear he felt when he saw them for himself.
From his low dug-in position, to all intents and purposes the field stretching out ahead of him looked like someone had been trying to grow a crop of body parts. Hands stuck up like Jerry was asking for help. Elsewhere a truncated leg like a sapling tree, defying physics and the weather to stay standing upright. Not far away, a kraut on his back like he was lying on a beach, sunbathing. Bowker watched that one for a while, making sure he was dead. He’d have to deal with him if he wasn’t.
They came out of the mist.
He knew straightaway that there was something different about these soldiers. Something about the way they moved. Ponderous at times, borderline lethargic. Exactly how you didn’t want to move if you’d just witnessed a couple hundred of your comrades blown to kingdom come in this exact same spot. But still they came, and it took Bowker a while to figure out that it was them.
The Americans had shells enough to spare.
Another volley of mortars came from behind, flying over Bowker’s head and blasting seven shades out of the frozen field and most of the approaching German soldiers. Bowker glanced up from his foxhole once again to see several of them still moving towards the American line, apparently without a damn care in the world. Curiosity kept his head up and exposed and he watched with disbelief as they continued their advance. One of them, it appeared, had been hit. A soldier dressed in off-white fatigues, one side of his body drenched with his own blood, kept coming like nothing had happened. His rifle hung useless. His right arm blown off below the elbow.
More shells, because these damn things weren’t stopping for anyone.
And now gunfire.
And now men elsewhere along the Elsenborn ridge were up out of their dug-outs, shooting at the enemy unopposed. Like shooting fish in a barrel, he thought, but it really wasn’t. They kept on coming. Whether they were shot or blown up, the damn things just kept on coming and coming. And as Bowker found to his cost, picking them off from a distance wasn’t as easy as it looked. All he did was miss a couple, then got himself distracted by a couple more coming from a different angle. Then by the time he was ready to point and shoot at the first ones again, two had become four, then six, then more.
The gunner firing the 240mm Howitzer didn’t even know Private Bowker was there when he hit the undead crowd.
9
IN THE RUINS OF BASTOGNE
Escobedo had hoped that the night might have brought some relief. He’d thought the setting of the sun and the plunging of the outside world into darkness would render the undead masses all but invisible. Out of sight, he’d thought, and out of mind. But nothing could have been further from the truth. Though he’d initially been glad to lose sight of the sea of evil, twisted faces below, now i
t was what he couldn’t see that scared him more. Where were they? Had they managed to get into the building? Was that really Gunderson lying next to him, or one of them? His mind was playing tricks. Cruel and vicious tricks.
They’d stripped some timber from the walls and put a blockade across the open window frame as best they could, and that allowed them to light a small fire in the darkest corner of the rubble-filled room in which they continued to shelter. The already low temperature had plummeted like a stone. The wind cut through them like knives. Worst of all, there was no respite from the noise. It travelled unopposed through the vacuum which was the centre of Bastogne: the relentless muffled thumps and crashes of their colleagues at the front doing all they could to defend themselves and the locals against the undead hordes.
Earlier, Wilkins had crept down to a lower floor with Lieutenant Parker to try and better assess their situation. It hadn’t taken long. ‘That’s us screwed,’ had been the lieutenant’s brief but succinct assessment, and Wilkins had been hard pushed not to completely agree.
The dead still filled the square outside. Whereas earlier there had been some room for manoeuvre, now the sheer mass of them converging on this central point had begun to cause real problems. With the rest of Bastogne so desolate, they continued to be drawn to this place and now there were too many coming in for any to get out. Occasional flashes of light from distant exploding munitions revealed the full extent of the horrific scene. It reminded Wilkins of the vast crowds of revellers he’d seen in Trafalgar Square back home in London, the last New Year’s Eve before the war. It chilled him to the bone to imagine this vile infection crossing the channel and spreading amongst his fellow countrymen. Being an island had frequently been to the United Kingdom’s advantage. Should the Nazi germ reach British shores, however, he knew his country’s geography would become a curse. Millions of diseased people trapped in a relatively confined space, transmitting the scourge to millions more until none were left untainted. It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘We have to do absolutely everything in our power to stop this awful disease from spreading,’ he’d whispered to Lieutenant Parker.
‘You ain’t wrong,’ Parker had replied without hesitation. ‘But how can any of us expect to make a difference, man? There are thousands of these damn monsters already, and if the things you and the kraut were saying earlier are true, then it ain’t gonna be long before thousands become hundreds of thousands... then millions.’
‘I know, but we have to remain positive, don’t we? We have to believe we can make a difference. Each one of us.’
‘Granted, but if you believe you alone can change the direction of something like this, then I reckon you must have your head firmly wedged up your ass. No offence.’
‘None taken, Lieutenant,’ Wilkins said wryly, resolutely polite. ‘But you have to remember, it’s likely that one man started this whole nightmare, and I’ll wager our German friend upstairs could name a particular individual who has had the most dramatic effect on world events recently, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘You talkin’ about Adolf?’
‘The one and only, thank goodness.’
The two men crept back inside and began to climb. ‘I reckon we just hunker down here ’til something happens to distract them, don’t you?’
‘I think you’re probably right. Our choices are frustratingly limited this evening.’
They soon reached the top floor, and found everyone just as they’d left them. Sitting around waiting like this didn’t sit well with any soldier, irrespective of rank or side. Henri Mercel, in contrast, seemed content to do as little as possible. He’d barely spoken. Barely even moved in an age. ‘What d’you reckon to that one?’ Parker asked, gesturing at the overweight Belgian. He was slumped in the corner of the room, occasionally moaning and licking his lips, swallowing hard. ‘Looks like he’s coming down with something.’
‘We should keep an eye on him,’ Wilkins suggested.
‘We should ditch him. Seems to me he’s a dead weight. We’ll have more than enough to do when we get out of this place. Don’t need a no-good nobody like him slowing us down.’
Rations were pooled. Food was distributed.
The night was long and largely without rest. Wilkins and the Americans took turns watching von Boeselager and Mercel as well as keeping an eye on what was happening outside.
The first light of day was nervously beginning to creep over the shattered landscape of Bastogne when all hell broke loose on the top floor of the dilapidated building.
Henri Mercel groaned in pain. His skin was clammy, blanched white, and he was sweating profusely.
His breathing became shallow and laboured.
Then stopped.
‘He dead?’ Gunderson asked with his now customary lack of tact, and he prodded his belly with the barrel of his rifle.
All awake now, all watching intently. The group of soldiers became hushed. The silence was almost reverent.
Escobedo was about to get closer to the obese Belgian to check for a pulse, when Mercel opened his eyes wide and lunged at him. Escobedo instinctively grabbed the civilian’s shoulders and locked his elbows to keep him at a distance, but he lost his balance and was forced down onto his back. The weight of the writhing Belgian was hard to support, but he knew he couldn’t allow his snapping jaws anywhere near him. Blood-tinged drool spilled freely from his mouth, soaking and staining Escobedo’s already grubby kit. ‘Get this crazy bastard off me!’ he hissed.
Von Boeselager obliged. He grabbed Mercel’s shoulders and slammed him over onto his back, leaving Escobedo free to roll away. Mercel’s gross size was an advantage to the soldiers; he was like a turtle on its shell, struggling to right his considerable bulk, thrashing his dumpy arms and legs. In the sudden melee, the madness of movement in the half-light of dawn, von Boeselager picked up a pistol that Escobedo had dropped, held it against Mercel’s forehead, and fired.
‘You must destroy the brain. It’s the only way to be certain.’
‘Thank you,’ Lieutenant Parker said. He held his hand out and von Boeselager gave up the pistol. Parker gestured for him to move. ‘Back over there. Keep an eye on him, Gunderson.’
Both the German and Gunderson did as ordered.
Wilkins and Coley studied the Belgian’s chubby corpse for a few moments longer. Wilkins reached out to touch the dead man’s face, but stopped when von Boeselager called out. ‘No! Please, do not touch it. The germ is easily transmitted.’
Wilkins nodded appreciatively and then dragged the bulky body by its feet to the open window. The lighting was slightly better there. He cautiously peeled back the dead man’s trouser leg to reveal a gangrenous wound near his left ankle. There were uniform, semi-circular marks around the tear in his flesh. ‘Bugger me, this selfish sod had been bitten. Look! He came up here knowing full well he was already infected.’
‘Get rid of him then, Lieutenant,’ Lieutenant Coley said, and Wilkins obliged. He lifted Mercel’s feet and flipped him out over the ledge. He watched him complete almost a full somersault before landing on his back in the crowd below with a nauseating thud.
Lieutenant Parker stared at von Boeselager. ‘I still reckon he knows more than he’s letting on.’
Von Boeselager remained silent. Tight-lipped. No eye contact. Staring straight ahead.
‘We should beat it out of him,’ Gunderson said.
No flicker of emotion from the Nazi.
‘Let’s not,’ Wilkins suggested.
‘You a sympathiser all of a sudden, ’cause he stepped up just now?’ Parker asked, a surprising amount of venom in his voice.
‘No, Lieutenant, I’m most definitely not.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s clear Mr von Boeselager here wants to get out of Bastogne as much as the rest of us. We can use that to our advantage.’
‘How so?’
‘He can create a diversion and draw the dead away, allowing you good folks to leave in the opposite direction.’
‘What makes you think he’ll play ball?’ Escobedo asked.
‘I was about to ask the same question,’ von Boeselager said.
‘Because I’ll go with him.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Von Boeselager and I will leave here and make enough noise to distract the dead. It makes sense if you think about it... he’s certainly helped you Lieutenant Coley, and both Mr Escobedo and I were very grateful for his interjection just now. Surely he deserves better than to be frog-marched off to a POW camp?’
‘You want to let a kraut walk free?’ Gunderson said, not quite able to believe what he was hearing.
‘No, I want to use him to let you gents walk free. How does that sound?’
‘Sounds like a dumbass plan to me, sir.’
‘Gotta admit, it doesn’t sound like the best of deals,’ Coley agreed.
‘What’s happened here has changed everything,’ Wilkins said. ‘The battle lines have been re-drawn. Our priorities have changed, both as soldiers and as men. As husbands, fathers, brothers...’
Von Boeselager took them all by surprise. ‘I will do it,’ he announced suddenly. ‘My commanding officers, they do not understand what they have done. The Fuhrer regards what is happening here as another step towards victory. He cannot see what he has unleashed.’
‘You can’t make deals with a kraut,’ Parker warned. ‘He’ll double-cross us.’
‘Not us,’ Wilkins corrected him. ‘Me. I’m not asking you to take any chances.’
‘Why would I double-cross anyone?’ von Boeselager asked. ‘You men are from the United States, thousands of miles from here. Lieutenant Wilkins, your home is safe from this disease for the moment. My family, however, is close. My wife and daughter are in Mannheim. If, as Lieutenant Wilkins and I both believe, the power and reach of the undead will continue to increase, then my family will inevitably soon pay the ultimate price. We are trained soldiers, they are not. Gertrud is barely four years old. If men like us cannot beat these creatures, what hope is there for my little girl?’