The Front (Book 3): Berlin or Bust

by DiLouie, Craig

  The most unnerving thing about them was they didn’t know fear.

  That and their blazing white eyes.

  He lined up his first shot using the barrel’s iron sights and squeezed the trigger. The semi-automatic rifle fired a single round that obliterated a ghoul’s face.

  Wolff fired again, again. One by one, he and his comrades thinned the draugr ranks, only to face another eager wave.

  The SS were close now.

  “SIEG! SIEG! SIEG! SIEG!”

  They broke into a run as they charged under their eagles and swastikas. The front ranks went down. The rest swarmed over the barricades.

  “Fall back!” an officer howled.

  Wolff stepped back, FG42 barking at his shoulder as he drained the twenty-round magazine. He popped in a fresh mag and kept retreating, firing as he went.

  Behind him, tenement windows burst along the plaza. Hundreds of draugr poured out of them like maggots boiling from wounds. They were burrowing through the buildings to spill out into the plaza. Soldiers and civilians, old and young, men and women and children with glowing white eyes.

  All of them consumed by rage and hungry.

  Officers screamed orders to fall back. Wolff retreated, still firing, while the platoons formed up in a battle circle at the center of the plaza. Out of ammunition, many paratroopers had already fixed bayonets.

  Wolff jogged to his squad, where Reiser stood fuming at the coming horde. “Now what, Herr Leutnant?”

  “Now we die for nothing,” the lieutenant snarled.

  On the other side of the battle circle, the Fallschirmjäger fought hand to hand.

  Not for nothing, Wolff thought as the last plane roared overhead, returning to England. If he died today, he’d die knowing he did it to save the world.

  Atone for what Germany had done to it.

  And for the men next to him.

  Officers barked commands at their men. The orders passed along the line. The regiment would strike south and fight their way out of the kessel.

  “Gehen,” Reiser shrieked. “Los, los, los!”

  “Glück ab!” Wolff roared and charged with the rest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HOME

  Filthy and frozen to the bone, Sergeant Wilkins hobbled across the tarmac on his crutches until he reached the base’s administrative offices.

  Colonel Adams’ orderly greeted him at reception. “The colonel will be with you in just a moment, Sergeant. Care for a cup of char?”

  Wilkins blinked. “Char?”

  The orderly looked at him with a pleasant expression. “Or would you rather take some time to get cleaned up?”

  “I’ll take some char,” Wilkins said.

  “Have a seat.”

  The sergeant lowered himself into one of the waiting chairs with a pained grunt. A clock ticked on the wall, which only accentuated the grating silence. He studied the small reception room for threats.

  He jumped as the door opened and the orderly came in with a steaming mug.

  “Here you are, Sergeant,” the kid said. “Nice and hot.”

  Wilkins nodded and drank. The thick tea’s heat filled his chest. Instead of sharpening his senses, however, the hot drink lulled him into a mental drift.

  Then he was back on the snow-packed street, running for his life from a mob of bloodthirsty ghouls—

  He started awake, spilling some of the scalding tea on his lap.

  The inner office door swung open to reveal Colonel Adams. “You’d better get in here, Sergeant.”

  Wilkins struggled to regain his feet.

  “Leave the tea,” Adams added. “I suspect you could use something stronger.”

  He hobbled into the colonel’s office and again underwent the painful process of lowering himself into the chair facing the drab RAF desk.

  Colonel Adams poured stiff drinks and handed him one. “To your successful mission, Sergeant.”

  The brandy went down like fire. “Thank you, sir. We certainly paid for it.”

  “You lost good men.”

  “We also left the Germans to die.”

  The colonel fixed him with an icy stare. “That concerns you, does it?”

  Wilkins remembered sitting near the doorway of the Skytrooper transport plane as it bucked its way to altitude. A front-row seat to what would surely be the destruction of the remaining Fallschirmjäger in Berlin.

  The Germans had formed a battle circle north of Tempelhof Airport. On the west side of the circle, the draugr had gotten close enough to fight hand to hand. The entire formation broke south. The soldiers rushed toward safety, shedding a delaying rearguard that was overrun and destroyed.

  Even then, Wilkins thought they might make it. They were withdrawing in good order, showing the excellent discipline one expected of elite light infantry. The soldiers poured fire and dumped their stick grenades to buy space.

  Go, you buggers, he’d thought. You can do it.

  The plane had banked and cut off his view, leaving him only with a bare hope the Fallschirmjäger would survive.

  Then he’d glimpsed the draugr host.

  A massive horde coming from the south. These were the undead that had bloodied the Americans and driven them out of Berlin.

  Wilkins had suddenly found himself grateful he couldn’t see the rest.

  Still, sitting in Colonel Adams’ warm office drinking his brandy, he had to wonder if the Red Devils could have done more.

  “We won’t win if we don’t stop fighting the last war, sir,” he said.

  “Sergeant, I’m afraid I must place some unpleasant facts on the table. One is we would have left our own in Berlin if it meant getting the Overman serum and those documents you hauled back even a single minute sooner.”

  Wilkins frowned in disbelief. “Sir—!”

  “The ghouls broke the line at the Meuse, Sergeant. While you were gone. That’s the second part.”

  He sagged. “Christ.”

  “The Americans are dropping into northern France to stop them. The same men who got mauled in Berlin volunteered to go straight back out. We sent them. We had nobody else. Do you understand, Sergeant?”

  In a week, the undead would be feasting on Paris.

  The horrors of his mission, the loss of his team, his wounding by the harsh lieutenant, the justice of killing Adolf Hitler—none of it mattered. If the world survived, historians would care, but right now, the past was pointless.

  The only thing that mattered now was the next hour.

  “I suppose you’ll be sending the Red Devils back out, sir,” he said.

  “We will. They go tomorrow.”

  “Right,” said Wilkins and grunted as he stood. “I’ll get myself sorted for it.”

  “Sit down, Sergeant,” Adams protested. “You’re excused from duty.”

  “With all respect, sir, you’re not keeping me from this party. You need every shooter you’ve got. If we don’t stop the bloody draugr from reaching Paris, we’ll lose all of Europe. We’ll lose it all.”

  Europe would become a vast sea of the undead, and all the men who’d fought and died in Berlin would have died for nothing.

  He hoped Jocelyn would understand. And forgive him.

  “Well,” Colonel Adams said with a hint of amusement, “then you’d better get some rest and have that leg tended. I’ll be glad to have you with me.”

  “With you, sir?”

  “Everybody’s going, Sergeant. Any man who can shoot a gun. We’ve taken so many losses, all airborne will now operate as a single unit under American command. One way or the other, this is it. The final battle.”

  “I hope the eggheads do their part, sir.”

  “We’ve got our best minds on it already. They’ll crack it.”

  “Until then...”

  “Until then, we’ll do ours.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  TOTAL WAR

  Jäger Muller lay a clinic bed wondering how he’d gotten here.

  In full kit and
with his scoped K98 slung over his shoulder, Schulte smiled down at him. “You’re at Martlesham Heath, kid. You made it.”

  Muller touched his chest, though he knew the Overman serum wasn’t there. He was in a bed, wearing pajamas, his guts throbbing with a nagging dull ache.

  It all came back to him. The beautiful smiling maid caressing his stubbled cheek with her nails. Her mouth opening wider than he thought possible, revealing teeth clotted with rotting meat.

  Her head exploding on the snow, followed by an endless pilgrimage through purgatory that ended with him lying moaning on the deck of a plane.

  “Mama,” he said.

  He’d gone back for her, hadn’t he?

  He’d stayed on the motorcycle, resolved to help Schulte deliver the Overman serum. He was going to go find his family after.

  Now he never would.

  “Rest,” the sniper said. “Enjoy the morphine and the nurses. I’ll see you and your impressive scar when I get back.”

  Muller looked around the room. The clinic and its beds full of wounded soldiers swam in his eyes. He tried to speak but had difficulty forming words.

  “Where ... going?”

  “It’s back to the front for me, kid. Paris.” The sniper shrugged. “The life of a German soldier, eh? We always seem to win big until we lose it all. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky this time.”

  “That bad?”

  “The draugr broke the line at the Meuse. The Allies are throwing everything they have at it. In Germany, Leipzig is under siege. The Wehrmacht formed a new government in Munich and is trying to form a southern front. Dresden went dark. Don’t tell Steiner about that. It’s bad enough for him as it is.”

  “He’s...?”

  “Alive, ja. And more dachshaden than ever. They let him keep his machine-gun.” The sniper ruefully shook his head. “They’re desperate.”

  “Anybody else...?”

  “Nein. As far as I know, we’re all that’s left of the 3FJR.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Ja. Keep calling him. We need all the help we can get. Speaking of which, here comes Steiner.”

  The machine-gunner strode into the clinic toting his MG42. “Mules led by lions, Erich.” He looked down at Muller. “How are you, Yohann?”

  The soldier looked ghastly, his face red and raw, his jacket charred black in spots. But he was grinning. Dachshaden.

  “Wish I was going with you,” Muller said.

  “You’re crazy,” said Steiner.

  “Heroes usually are,” Schulte observed. “You and Steiner both. Thanks to you bringing back the Overman serum, Allied scientists are now working on a way to kill the draugr. Maybe produce a vaccine for the rest of us.”

  So maybe it all meant something. Muller hoped it did. It had to.

  He raised his hand. “Glück ab, comrades.”

  Schulte smiled and clasped it. “Glück ab, jäger.”

  He liked that, being called jäger.

  Steiner clasped it next. “Glück ab. Get better soon, Yohann. We’ll need you when we return to Berlin.”

  The men tramped out of the room, returning to this new, horrific, total war which could only be won through absolute victory.

  Muller hoped Steiner was right. They’d win, and he’d go back to Berlin to help put Germany to rights. A better Germany, a strong Germany, a righteous Germany. A Germany of art and freedom and peace.

  Until then, his war was over. He’d be staying here until his wounds healed.

  The rest, meanwhile, would be going to the front.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Craig DiLouie is an author of popular thriller, apocalyptic/horror, and sci-fi/fantasy fiction.

  In hundreds of reviews, Craig’s novels have been praised for their strong characters, action, and gritty realism. Each book promises an exciting experience with people you’ll care about in a world that feels real.

  These works have been nominated for major literary awards such as the Bram Stoker Award and Audie Award, translated into multiple languages, and optioned for film. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, and Imaginative Fiction Writers Association.

  Learn more about Craig’s writing at www.CraigDiLouie.com. Sign up for Craig’s mailing list to be the first to learn about his new releases here.