The Rats of Frankfurt: The Gospel of Madness (Book 1 of 6) (The Gospel of Madness - (A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Series))

by Georg Bruckmann

While I was still trying to figure out where the microwave and coffee machine cables were going, I heard for the first time the deep, rumbling and accentuated voice of the Ivan.

  “Who’s that? Tell me. Looks like he got wet.”

  Stumptooth began to babble eagerly, told the events one by one, beginning to report how I, hunted by at least twenty guys who were armed to the teeth ran across the bridge, and, as the wretched coward I doubtlessly was, jumped into the river as soon as I laid eyes on the Ivan’s people and had them do my dirty work. He constantly praised the bravery of the bridge patrol, which, completely outnumbered, had fought a fierce battle with the new invaders, so that now only a handful of them were now roaming the terrain that Ivan claimed for himself.

  In short, Stumptooth made sure that he and his skinny pal stood tall like heroes on duty and also sold my capture as the greatest deed a man had ever done and in the course of which he had not only more than fulfilled and mastered the tasks assigned to him with flying colors, but had also always remained master of my unruly and deeply shrewd nature.

  I wondered whether he acted like this out of fear of the Ivan, who was obviously an irascible tyrant, or whether it had always been his way of profiling himself at the expense of others.

  Meanwhile, Ivan had continued to pattern me throughout the entire report, and I was trying as best I could to withstand his gaze. When he finally addressed me, his face seemed slightly amused, but his eyes expressed more calculation and a touch of anger.

  “So you like to swim and crawl down below, under the ground, huh?”

  He did not expect an answer, but continued speaking without a break.

  “What do these people on the bridge want from you, eh?”

  Ivan now examined my crossbow and the pitiful rest of my equipment, which his boys had put down at his feet in front of the throne. As was to be expected, he was mainly interested in the assault rifle and the pistols.

  “See, see, so this stuff is waiting right under our noses?”

  This was directed at Stumptooth, who suddenly no longer felt so heroic, but fixed a point between his feet to avoid Ivan’s piercing glance.

  “Why hasn’t anyone brought me this before, eh? None of you? Why is that?”

  Stumptooth began to apologize as he looked nervously at the guards with the red armbands.

  “You have ... I mean … it was forbidden for us to go into the tunnels. We were just supposed to make sure nobody got into the station this way, and we did. If any of us had known that...”

  “Enough!”

  Ivan jumped up, and I could see how big he was. The fur coat, which he wore over his tattered clothes despite the relative warmth in the tent, reinforced the impression of bearlike strength and uncontrolled wildness. The guards to the right and left of Ivan’s throne tightened in anticipation of an order, but where spontaneous rage had just distorted Ivan’s face, an expression of fatherly mildness now spread through it.

  Amazing.

  “All right, all right. You’re free to go. Go away and have the food master give you a bottle.”

  For a moment he seemed to think about stammering words of thanks, but in the end Stumptooth was content with rolling out of the tent with his head down, banging against one of the guards who had led us in.

  Ivan’s eyes turned back to me. With a grand gesture, he spread his arms.

  “Excuse me, excuse me. What happened to my manners? Come on, sit down.”

  He gestured towards a table surrounded by chairs and one of the guards pushed me quite rudely towards one of them. I sat down and Ivan came down from his pedestal and sat across from me, still looking at me incessantly.

  Without Ivan giving any further instructions, three women came out of the back area of the tent, separated from the main room by cloths and heavy curtains. Their age ranged from early twenties to mid-fifties. Calmly but quite quick they brought plates and tablets with food and placed it on the table between the Russian and me. They must have been either very, very quiet since I entered the tent, or I had been too distracted to notice their presence earlier.

  Two glasses and a bottle of vodka, a loaf of bread that smelled as if it had just left the oven, and a pile of shrink-wrapped sausage and canned meat. Finally, a bowl of wrinkled apples was placed on the with scratches covered tabletop.

  The surprising and nostalgic smell of fresh bread and the prospect of eating some of it struggled in my mind with my concern for Mariam, but most of all I thirsted for the warmth that a mouthful of vodka promised to me. The cold that my bath in the Main had brought me, and which had been successfully banished from the adrenaline into the background of my perceptions, was constantly pushing forward.

  Luckily for me Ivan didn’t seem to be averse to a good sip, because the first thing he did was to fill the two not so small glasses to the edge with an excessive gesture and to push one of them over to me.

  “We eat first. Then we’ll talk. But before that...!”

  He made a huge move, emptied the glass and energetically banged it on the table with a red head. Then he gave me sign to follow his lead. I also tried honestly, but I could not process more than two mouthfuls of the clear, high-proof liquid at once. Ivan grudgingly laughed at my coughing attack, but I didn’t really care, because after I got the coughing behind me, I finally felt the burning warmth that quickly spread through my body. For a few seconds I closed my eyes. On the one hand to simply enjoy the feeling for a second or two and on the other hand to collect my thoughts.

  Ivan certainly wanted to know if I posed a danger to his little empire. Whether there was more of my kind where I came from and what my presence might mean for him. They had not given me a knife or any other cutlery, but when I opened my eyes again, I saw that Ivan was cutting the loaf into eight large pieces with his own blade. He casually threw two of them over the table in my direction, opened a jar of pickled cucumbers that had escaped my attention so far, fished out a handful and then too pushed the jar of cucumber onto my side of the table.

  “Eat,” he said with his mouth full, and I did as I was told. The three women had again retreated to the separated part of the tent, and apart from Ivan’s boys who had been lurking around me, we were alone. I was grateful for the break Ivan gave me, because while we were eating in silence, I managed to sort my thoughts a little more.

  What was I supposed to tell him? The whole story of the degenerates? Should he know about the existence of Wanda and Mariam? About Da Silva’s sick gospel? Or should I rather tell him that I simply roamed aimlessly and that I had become the hunting game of the deg pack that was now causing trouble Ivan’s territory in search of me by sheer chance?

  Would he believe that?

  Ivan almost stuffed a whole slice of bread into his mouth, barely chewed it, and even before he had swallowed it completely, he said, underlining his words with much wagging of his greasy fingers:

  “Well, here’s the thing: Those guys who were after you - my boys exactly know where they are right now. I could have them killed without a hint of a problem. But the question that arises is, what’s best for me and ...”

  He spread his arms.

  “... for my little community? When it comes to the fight, more of my boys could die, and it could very well happen that more of these guys show up here and cause turmoil when the first ones don’t return to back their kin. Should I take that risk, and if so, then what for? For one single man, huh? To be honest, right now I tend to just turn you over to them and send them on their way.”

  He took a little break and drank a sip before he continued speaking.

  “After all, you’ve already cost me two lives, haven’t you? And we’ve already lost more people this month than we can afford.”

  While he was talking, he fixated me with his otherwise always fluttering, unfathomable gaze, whose only constant seemed to be a glowing rage at everything and everyone, hidden deep within.

  I remained silent for a moment. Then I started talking very carefully.

  The
whole story, from the beginning.

  When I had finished my monologue, I added:

  “So you see, I didn’t come here to make trouble, and even though two of your people died on the bridge, which I really regret, but with the guns I found, you can...”

  I stretched out my arms like Ivan had done.

  “... protect your community from just about any enemy, and the risk of losing more people will tend more or less towards zero.”

  Ivan had had a booth, so he had been a kind of businessman before the great war changed the world forever, and I hoped that my sober, objective attempt to balance the facts would be acknowledged by him.

  Ivan nodded slowly, pretending he was still thinking, but I knew he must have prepared what he would say next at least a minute ago. He started with his strange eastern accent:

  “When you have the girl and the woman back with you, where will you go? Would you come by one of our neighbors and tell them about us? That we have good electricity maybe? That we have weapons and enough food for the next two years? Would you tell them about the guns or the tunnel you found? Wouldn’t it be best, from my perspective, simply to eliminate you and these handful of degenerates, as you call them? Just in case? We don’t need beggars or a bunch of people trying to take what we consider our property by force.”

  He was obviously getting excited in the meantime. Didn’t he just say he wanted to avoid a fight with the degs? Or was that just to make me feel guilty?

  “All this can only work if there is a certain order. People need someone to make clear announcements and you...”

  He pointed at me

  “... you’ve brought chaos. You’re forcing me into things I don’t want to do.”

  Ivan jumped up, and began to walk up and down in excitement.

  “It’s hard to keep things going around here. I’m the only one who can. Without me...”

  Again he spread his arms.

  “… all the people here would have died some miserable death long ago. Thanks to me, they’re United, thanks to me they have a purpose!”

  He continued his sermon and I realized two things.

  Even if Ivan was right about some of the things he said - the man seemed to be at the end of his rope on the one hand, and anything but emotionally stable on the other.

  As tall as he was and as imposing as his appearance may have been, his regime was a reflection of all his fears. He was afraid of his neighbors, and I assumed that with that he meant other newly formed communities that I just hadn’t seen yet. He was afraid of his own people, for why else would he have had to create several classes in his new society?

  There were the ones with the armbands. Those were obviously the ones he trusted to some extent and whom he probably kept on track with some privileges. Among them were people like Stumptooth, whom he kept under control by more or less arbitrary laws, rules and punishments, and also by their simple fear of the redsleeves. And then there were the sick hurters and the weak who had to live down on the tracks and who had to be grateful that they occasionally were allowed to eat the bread crumbs from Ivan’s table. Out of weakness and inability, they probably never even had the idea to seek their salvation elsewhere. The world was merciless, and here they at least had protection, even if they had to vegetate in an underground camp and do the low level work.

  I changed my tactics. Quietly I said:

  “Someone as hard working as you, Ivan, with that much weight on his shoulders needs someone who understands him. Who helps him. You’ve come a long way, you’ve built all this up from nothing. You gave these people food and warmth and order. But if I may say so, you seem ... tired. I can see very well what kind of weight presses down on you - to keep all this going, all by yourself and ...”

  And indeed, where in the movies the warlords and kings had a staff of advisers on their side, in Ivan’s tent there were only silent underlings to be found. Slowly I turned my head to convince myself of my impression once more, just to be sure. Yeah, none of these men looked like they had any decision-making authority. Two were obviously too young, barely seventeen years old. Another was clearly addicted to alcohol and the fourth had his war trauma and depression dug clear signs in his face.

  I continued.

  “... You need someone who understands the needs of an operation like this. To take over some of your everyday decisions so that you can devote yourself to the real important things. Let me bring the woman and child here, Ivan. We need a safe place for the winter anyway. My interest is in the survival of the two, you should have learned this much from what I just told you. We’d be safe here with you and we wouldn’t be interested ...”

  I made the all-embracing Ivan gesture.

  “... harming your community. You wouldn’t have to kill me or turn me over to that bunch of lunatics out there. You ...”

  Ivan’s massive body suddenly tightened. He took a surprisingly quick step towards me, grabbed me by the collar and pulled me up from my chair and over the table, leaving me breathless.

  “Who are you to presume to understand my thoughts? Who are you to think you could be of help to me? Who are you to think you’re more than the dirt under my fingernail, huh?”

  He screamed right into my face and I closed my eyes and mouth too late for not taking in any of his vodka, sausage and cucumber smelling breath.

  He kept yelling at me in this way, pulling me around in the tent like a light cloth doll, shaking me, bumping me against tables and other furniture, and some of the junk Ivan had piled up there fell to the ground or broke. The redsleeves hastily made room for their master and watched the scene with caution, but without real surprise. I did not resist, let him run riot, let him show that it was he and only he who was in charge here.

  When the outburst of anger slowly died down, he finally thundered his fist into my stomach. I collapsed and remained on the floor, struggling for breath. Ivan stood above me, also breathing heavily, and I looked up into his deep red, sweating face. First he looked scared for a moment, shocked at his own reaction and I thought I had scored, that I had found this man’s weak spot.

  His face was replacing the expression of amazement with the caricature of an excusing laugh, and I was sure that his anger was gone for now, when his eyes suddenly narrowed again and an animalistic scream yelled out of his throat.

  He fixated a certain point on my body and I followed his gaze.

  The handle of the pistol, which Stumptooth and the drought had overlooked, had slipped a bit out of the pocket of my parka. With another scream, Ivan came at me again and dropped all his weight on my chest so that it pressed the air out of my lung once more and grabbed for the gun.

  I couldn’t even gasp anymore because his knees hit my damaged ribs. There was just pain. Pain that pushed the fear of what the angry Ivan would do to me next far into the background.

  Then he pawed himself up again, by repelling himself painfully with one of his huge hands from my face. It almost broke my nose. He stood over me with the gun in his hand. He looked at it for a moment, apparently pensive.

  Then he unlocked the safety and pointed the barrel at my forehead.

  He growled quietly:

  “I knew it after all. They sent you to kill me.”

  I laboriously sat up, held my hands in Ivan’s direction, trying to calm him down, trying to say something reassuring to the raging man, but...

  ***

  I unsuccessfully tried to penetrate the darkness surrounding me with my eyes, and I was not even sure whether I was really conscious or whether I was still in a twilight state somewhere between dull, painful red nebulae and blessed, black non-existence.

  Only when the pain in my head slowly became sharper because my increasing pulse pumped the blood through my veins faster than before, I was sure that I was actually awake and alive. With my hands I reached for my skull. Carefully my fingers crept first over my face, and then over the rest of my head.

  No hole, no moisture - no blood.

  But an elevation th
at hurt when I touched it, that hurt so much that I immediately pulled back my fingers. Ivan obviously didn’t shoot me. I had probably been knocked out from behind. At least that bump on the back of my head suggested it. I wondered if it had happened on Ivan’s orders, or if one of the guards had tried to save my life with such an unauthorized blow, interrupting Ivan’s raging tirade and bringing him back to reality. I recalled their dull faces. I didn’t think so. But if it did happen this way, I was in deep debt.

  Carefully I put my body in a sitting position, and I almost got sick. After a pause of several minutes, which I used to breathe slowly and concentrated and to push back the pain impulses that raced through my brain to a tolerable level, I finally began to explore my surroundings crawling and groping.

  The result of my effort was sobering. I was obviously in a small room about three by two meters. The walls were probably made of concrete, at least they were not bricked, but smooth and cold. In one wall was a heavy metal door. Twice I hammered against it, then, attracted by the resulting noise, the pain crept back into my head and I gave up my attempts of communicating with the outside world for the time being. No one had reacted anyway.

  I had not been able to feel a door handle and thus condemned to inaction, I looked for a bearable reclining position with quite moderate success and waited.

  If only I knew how long I’ve already been in here.

  The degenerates on the bridge, Wanda and the sick Mariam in the house, Ivan and his community in Frankfurt Central Station, the girl and the dogs, Thomas, the pile of corpses at the open side of the dead end - all this seemed almost unreal to me now. The thought that the backpack with the medicine for Mariam was laying useless in the undergrowth on the bank of the Main almost drove me crazy and only with great effort did I manage to force myself to rest.

  I had to accept that there was nothing I could do. I just hoped Wanda would take the initiative in time if I didn’t return. Sure she would. She wasn’t helpless. On the contrary. Considering what this woman had endured and survived, one could only be amazed that she had not lost her will to live long before we met. The opposite was the case. To a large extent she probably owed this to Mariam’s existence, I thought, and I realized that it was kind of similar for me.