Götterdämmerung

by Barry Reese

  He opened his eyes again, lest the visions come once more. They’d haunted him for many years, teasing him of violent acts that were yet to occur. Eventually, he’d learned that they were being sent from beyond the grave by his own father, who had molded his heir into a living vessel of vengeance against the kinds of men who had killed him.

  Lately, the visions had been, if anything, even grimmer than the reality in which The Peregrine found himself. He saw humanity being completely snuffed out, devoured by the mad god Azathoth as the ancient entity descended from the stars to end this reality once and for all. He sometimes saw himself as a puppet of these dark creatures, existing in other places and times. Like Darhoth, his body would be perverted for their evil purposes.

  Hearing approaching footsteps, Max stood up and made himself ready. It was hours before his execution time but he wouldn’t put it past the Nazis to want to get in some old-fashioned torture beforehand.

  He wished he had something besides his fists with which to defend himself. The Knife of Elohim was in Hitler’s possession now, another artifact in the madman’s growing collection of occult relics. He’d hoped to drive the blade deep into the little man’s black heart but that looked like a false dream.

  The figure who emerged from the darkness to stand before his cell was the living embodiment of lunacy. In some ways, he perfectly embodied the current world: darkly impressive in his fashion but also full of corruption. He was Mr. Death and he gave a gallant bow before addressing his captured foe.

  “Tonight’s the night, Mr. Davies. Are you as excited as I am?”

  “Shaking with anticipation,” The Peregrine replied. He looked away, not feeling like playing the kinds of games that Mr. Death enjoyed. The skull-faced man liked to taunt his prey with reminders of his dead family and friends. “Are you going to be there watching or will you be too busy on your knees servicing The Füehrer?”

  “Tut-tut,” Mr. Death cautioned. “That’s not nice at all.”

  “What’s the point of manners when I’m going to be killed in less than 24 hours?”

  Mr. Death stepped close to the bars and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m bored.”

  The Peregrine glanced up, a frown on his face. “Stay tuned. It’s going to get more interesting, I’d wager.”

  “The war’s over, hero. You lost. My side won. Now there’s going to be a Thousand Year Reich, during which the rest of the Old Ones will restore their power. And then… poof! They’re going to snuff us all out.”

  “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Pure chaos.”

  “This isn’t chaos. It’s the opposite. Hitler rules humanity with an iron fist while the masters pull his strings. There’s no resistance left, aside from Lazarus and Gravedigger.”

  “They’re still alive?” The Peregrine asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

  “Oh, yes… but there’s just the two of them. It won’t be long before they’re dead, along with all the rest. Hell, even if you were to escape somehow, there’s not much the three of you could do. Not without help.”

  Max slowly rose to his feet and approached the cell. Was he really hearing this? Was Mr. Death truly so deranged that he’d turn on his own side just to make things… interesting? “If I were to reunite with them,” he began, “we might not be able to win but we’d sure rattle some chains before we went down. Especially if, like you say, we had some inside help.”

  Mr. Death chuckled. “Now don’t go thinking you and I are buddies, okay? This is just to further my own sick little ends, get it?”

  “I get it.”

  Mr. Death reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled free an emerald-colored glove along with Max’s favorite weapon—The Knife of Elohim. The blade glowed brightly in Mr. Death’s grip and it sizzled, burning the villain as it made contact with his evil form. The madman seemed to either ignore the pain or, even worse, to enjoy it.

  The Peregrine recognized the glove immediately as having belonged to Andre. “Here’s your knife back and this is pretty much all that’s left of that little Negro,” Mr. Death said as he held up the glove, his words causing Max’s gut to churn with distaste. “But according to just about everybody, it still holds of his mystic juice.”

  “And what would I do with that?” The Peregrine asked.

  “Come on, do I have to do everything here?” Mr. Death asked in mock annoyance. “Look, all I ask is that you wait to use it when I’m not around. There are going to be enough questions about how you got your hands on it without me being present. Wait until I’m gone. Give me at least fifteen minutes.”

  The Peregrine accepted the glove and his holy weapon and said nothing as Mr. Death spun on his heels and scurried away, much like the rat that Max thought of him as. There was no denying that this glove contained power. It coursed through Max’s fingers and touched something deep inside his soul. Given his own connection to the other side, it wasn’t completely surprising to Max when he heard Andre’s distinctive voice in his head:

  Hello there, mon ami. I would say that I hope you are well but I think it is safe to say that you are not.

  “Any recommendations?” Max whispered, moving back into the shadowy recesses of his cell.

  There is only enough magic left in the glove for one good burst, I am afraid. You should make it count.

  The Peregrine stared at the back wall of his prison, knowing that on the other side was freedom. Should he use it now, to blast his way out? Or would it be best for everyone to wait until his supposed execution, when he might be able to take out Hitler and his cronies, even if it meant his own death?

  Keep in mind how we got to this point, Andre whispered inside his head. That’s the last bit of advice I can give you.

  Max paused, feeling the connection to Andre’s spirit slowly being severed. Whatever afterlife awaited the former Catalyst, Max knew that it was now irrevocably calling. “Know peace,” Max said. “You’ve earned it.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Death of The Peregrine

  “Why the long face, Herr Himmler? You are the hero of the people, are you not?”

  The tone in Josef Goebbels’ voice carried only the slightest trace of resentment but Himmler picked up on it easily enough. The Reich’s Propaganda Minister was jealous of Himmler’s new position in things but that wasn’t the full extent of it. Like so many others who had initially basked in the Reich’s sudden victory, they were beginning to have second thoughts about a world in which monsters strode the earth eating the unwary… and more and more of them were beginning to cast aspersions at the man given credit for so much of it. Heinrich Himmler and his OFP had been trumpeted loudly for their role in the rise of Darhoth and her ilk and now everyone knew who to thank—or blame—for the result.

  Himmler adjusted the medals he wore on his uniform and tried to maintain a brave face. Truth be told, he was beginning to wonder at his role in things, as well. For the Reich to be victorious was wonderful, of course. And the Jewish problem was simply no more. The last of the full-blooded sub-humans had been thrown into the pits last week, leaving the world free of their ilk. Those of one-half Jewish blood or less were left alive to serve in menial positions but there would come a day when they, too, would be purged to feed the hungers of the Reich’s new alien masters.

  And that was the unspoken truth of it, wasn’t it? Hitler was Füehrer in name but it was the Mother of Pus and all her kind who truly ruled over all.

  Himmler had damned the human race.

  “Just feeling a bit melancholy,” he said, glancing over at Goebbels. The two men were walking down a long tunnel that led to the site of The Peregrine’s execution. The entire area had been heavily modified since the Nazis had captured Sovereign, mostly for the protection of the government’s elite. While The Füehrer spent the vast majority of his time in Germany, he made occasional forays to the United States and his other holdings, splitting time between Washington, New York and Sovereign when in North America. Before Goebbels could speak again, h
e continued, “Once The Peregrine is dead, there will only be Gravedigger and Lazarus Gray left behind.”

  “And…?”

  “Once all our enemies are vanquished, we have to move on to the truly hard work: governing in our paradise.” Himmler hoped that his true feelings didn’t come through. If this was a paradise, then he hoped to never see Hell.

  Goebbels was an intelligent man, however. He pursed his lips together thoughtfully, tossing a quick salute to a soldier they passed. When he spoke, it was in measured tones that told Himmler that the thin man was in agreement with him. “This is not the Reich that I envisioned. Nor, I imagine, is it the one that The Füehrer imagined. But we have to deal with the cards we are dealt, do we not?” Lowering his voice even further, he said, “And our unearthly allies may not always be with us. They were defeated once, long ago and I think that perhaps your OFP could find a way to replicate that? For the good of the Reich, of course.”

  Himmler smiled slightly. It would be dangerous to go against Darhoth and the others but, as Goebbels pointed out, they were not unbeatable. “Yes,” he said in reply. “For the good of the Reich.”

  * * *

  “They plot against us and think we’re incapable of hearing them.”

  Darhoth sat at her dining room table, hearing the chiming of the bells in the distance. It was time to kill The Peregrine but she wasn’t finished with her evening’s meal. They would wait for her to arrive. To do otherwise was to invite her wrath and no one wanted that.

  Most of her beauty was gone now, having been ravaged by the foulness that lurked within her human flesh. She was cadaverous, the skin hanging loosely off her bones. Even though she ate constantly, the weight loss continued. She shoveled eyeballs, tongues and other body parts claimed from slaves and prisoners into her mouth, crunching them loudly and letting bits of blood and gore drip down her chin.

  Dieter Schneider could scarcely bear to look at her. He had long ago stopped thinking of her as Sonya but it still pained him to look into the once-gorgeous face of his daughter. She insisted on keeping him close by, forcing him to dine with her and listen to her paranoid ranting. He had wondered for a time if some part of his daughter still lay within and desired the company of her father. Lately, he had come to think it was simply more cruelty on the part of Darhoth. She wanted to torture him by watching as his daughter’s body fell to ruin.

  “Are you listening to me?” she demanded to know.

  “Of course,” he replied. “It’s just impossible for me to believe that anyone would dare to conspire against you.”

  “Humans are nothing if not predictable… and stupid. Their lives are so short that it’s impossible for them to have a true view of the consequences of their actions.”

  Dieter remained silent, not sure how to respond without angering her. He was quite relieved when a servant entered the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Dieter had noticed the fellow several times in recent days but didn’t know the man’s name. With a somewhat hawk-shaped nose and severely swept-back hair, the servant was quite striking, though Dieter thought it was the man’s eyes that were most remarkable. They were narrowed and focused, like those of a hunting cat. The servant spoke with fluent German but Dieter thought that perhaps he was an American who had lived abroad at some point.

  “The execution is set to begin soon,” the servant said.

  The Mother of Pus shoved her plate away and stood up, not caring about the mess she had made on the floor and table. “Another hero dies,” she said with relish. “Perhaps this will be the night that humanity’s spirit is well and truly crushed.”

  Dieter rose to follow the thing that had once been his daughter but he caught a subtle gleam in the servant’s eyes, as if he’d taken umbrage to The Mother of Pus’s words. Suddenly, Dieter realized where he had seen this man before. It had been in various newspapers over the years! A wealthy man-about-town named Harold Grant, who had become well-known for traveling the globe and taking part in safaris, mountain climbing and the like.

  Dieter sighed and looked away. He wasn’t the only one, it seemed, whose life had taken a severe turn for the worse.

  * * *

  The man that Dieter recognized as Harold Grant actually had far more in common with The Mother of Pus than might be first realized. In many ways, both of them wore the skin of another but they were hardly what they appeared to be. The real Harold Grant lay buried in an unmarked grave in the mountains of Tibet. It was Dexter Welles, famed World War I flying ace, who now occupied Grant’s identity. The two of them had crossed paths during one of Dexter’s many self-destructive journeys but in the end, Grant’s demise had in turn helped lead to Dexter’s own transformative resurrection.

  Welles had been a pilot in the Great War, quite possibly the greatest who had ever lived. But once the war was over, he had been left purposeless and without direction. In wartime, his ability to kill had made him a hero but in the “peaceful” world that followed, he had run the risk of becoming something far, far worse. And so he’d traveled the globe, drinking and fighting, seeking something to fill the void in his soul.

  He’d found it in Tibet. Near death after Grant’s own demise, Welles had been found by a monk who had taught him certain peculiar skills of the mind and body. He had returned to America, armed with this ancient knowledge, and assumed Grant’s life and fortune. He had used both to build a career as a vigilante, as well—The Darkling, a scourge against all who preyed upon the innocent. His violent abilities were now honed to their utmost and turned against the criminal element. He became feared throughout the underworld and both clashed and worked alongside Lazarus Gray on several occasions.

  Unfortunately, the recent rise of darkness had been more than The Darkling could combat. Like everyone else, he had seen friends and agents die. Now he wondered if the world would ever be the same. It had taken months to ingratiate himself inside the Nazi leadership and what he’d discovered had been enough to chill even his cold-hearted blood. These were forces of evil far beyond anything he had ever dealt with before.

  Slipping down the hall, he discarded the plates and their bits of foul food into a trash bin before ducking into a small room. It had a window that led out to a fire escape and, eventually, to the alley below. He had secreted some clothing in this room earlier and he donned it now, knowing that if he was going to save The Peregrine’s life, he only had moments to do so. A white face mask covered his face, a skull-like image emblazoned upon the front. A hat and heavy coat were then donned over his suit, successfully completing his transformation into The Darkling. It was said that while most men and women could only guess at the horrors that lay within men’s souls, The Darkling knew them intimately.

  On this day, he felt certain that truism would be put to the test.

  * * *

  Mr. Death sat at the back of the large wooden box that had been constructed in front of City Hall. It held seats for twenty people and with The Mother of Pus finally taking hers, it was now filled to capacity. The Füehrer, along with Goebbels and Himmler, was seated in the very front row, affording him the best possible view of The Peregrine’s demise.

  The vigilante had been permitted to wear his trademark mask and heroic attire, all the better for the many cameras to capture his final moments in dramatic detail. The photos would be dispersed far and wide, making sure that any remaining pockets of resistance that were out there would see what happened to those who opposed the new world order.

  Nimrod, the so-called “mask killer”, was also nearby, trying in vain to keep his face neutral. The man had been tasked with hunting down and killing vigilantes in the early days but now his work was nearly at his end—and his usefulness with it. Mr. Death was sure that Nimrod was already plotting his escape but it wouldn’t do him any good. In fact, Nimrod’s death had already been arranged. By the morning, he’d be dead, a victim of the slow-acting poison he’d ingested at dinner.

  Mr. Death had no silly notions that his own value was any higher than
Nimrod’s, not that such things had played a role in his decision to help The Peregrine. He was, as he’d intimated, simply bored with the new world in which he’d found himself. Victories were only as sweet as the effort put forth to achieve them and with their unholy allies, The Reich had steamrolled over any and all who had opposed them.

  And now what? The slow destruction of humanity? Oh, sure, there might be a few ghoulish chuckles to be had along the way but Mr. Death craved more. He wanted adventure, intrigue and spicy encounters. All three were going to be increasingly rare as The Mother of Pus and her ilk increased their control.

  A ripple went through the crowd as the condemned appeared, being led out by a squadron of SS soldiers. Military music blared and Mr. Death looked closely at The Peregrine, wondering if the man was as calm as he appeared. If Max Davies was trembling at the thought of his demise, he gave no sign of it. Outwardly, he remained defiant, looking at the faces of his captors as if marking each of them for eventual vengeance.

  Mr. Death knew no one had bothered to search the prisoner. Why should they, after all? He’d been searched multiple times in recent days and there was no way for him to have gotten anything new. The glove was, no doubt, secreted away in the hero’s jacket. How he’d utilize it, Mr. Death wasn’t sure, since the man’s hands were bound behind his back, but he was sure that The Peregrine wouldn’t go quietly into this good night.

  He hoped not, anyway.

  The Peregrine was brought before the assembled crowd and held in place for a moment while a litany of his crimes were read aloud. The Füehrer and his advisors were smiling and savoring the moment but Mr. Death hoped that their good humor would be fouled soon enough.

  When the recitation of charges was complete, The Peregrine was asked if he wished to admit to his crimes and ask for any small favors that might be permitted. It wouldn’t benefit him to plead for mercy, of course, but it was all part of the dog-and-pony show that the Nazis craved.

  The Peregrine looked at the faces in the crowd and then spoke in flawless German, repeating each sentence in English so that everyone could hear him. “My only crime is in not doing more for the innocent and the weak. Unlike the Füehrer and the monsters that he serves, I believe that there is more to life than the acquisition of power and the enslavement of others. I believe in the American dream. I believe in freedom and liberty. And I believe that no matter what happens today, the human spirit cannot and will not be broken. Men and women will rise up and oppose these dictators and monsters.”