by Scott Blade
The remaining soldiers, except for the large man, leapt to their feet, guns drawn. I fired my gun in rapid succession at them. The table held most of them in place for me. The rest shuffled in multiple directions, looking for cover.
Clumsily, they ran into each other. I shot two of them in the back, two in the chest. I purposely missed the chainsaw man. I wanted to save him for last.
The last man to survive my attack could see the room clearly, and he faced me holding a gun. He fired several rounds at me. Each bullet shredded into the back of my human shield. Except for one bullet; this one whizzed past me and out the bakery’s front window. The window shattered, alerting the soldiers outside. They brandished their machine guns, turning their attention to the little bakery.
I didn't care about them. I only wanted revenge. I returned fire at the last soldier standing. With one round left, I shot him in the center of his chest. He fell back onto another man who lay dying on the ground. I slipped the stiletto out of my human shield’s chest, where I had basically used it as a handle to control his movements. Savagely, I let his bullet-riddled body fall to the ground.
On the street, an SS officer ordered his unit to approach the bakery and investigate the violent commotion. From the corner of my eye, I noticed them gathering outside the bakery’s front doors.
While I examined the entrance, the large man dashed beyond the bodies and through a swinging door that led into the kitchen. I started to chase after him before I saw a weapon that was much better than my stiletto leaning against the wall: the chainsaw. I dropped the stiletto and picked up the chainsaw.
It was heavy, but I was so overcome with rage that my blood boiled. I felt no struggle in lifting and wielding the chainsaw. I turned the ignition switch a couple of times. The motor roared to life like a mechanical lion. The chain rattled as it traveled around the blade.
I pursued the large man into the kitchen.
Beyond the double swinging doors, the large man searched frantically for a weapon of his own, but there was nothing he could use against the chainsaw. The kitchen was full of rolling pins, cake utensils, and baking sheets. A terrified expression consumed his face. He fell to his knees like he was going to beg for his life. Instead, he trembled beneath me.
Suddenly, I noticed his face was distorted. Someone had recently broken his nose. One of his eyes was mashed shut. Also, the man didn’t speak; instead, he moaned. I realized his jaw was broken.
A mental image flashed in my mind. It was a repressed memory. It seemed recent. It was a moment that I had blacked out of my memory, a blip of me in the act of beating this man’s face in with the butt of an empty shotgun.
A fragmented smile cracked on my face. Suddenly, my mind flashed again to the forgotten memory. This flash turned into a living memory that flooded my mind. My lips unhinged, forming a smile as I watched the entire scene unfold.
I remembered every piece as if it were being played back in front of me on the white walls of the bakery's kitchen.
78
I had a flashback to when I lay on the ground, only hours before.
Suddenly, I remembered everything.
My body was coiled up near the burning building where Anna had died. My eyes opened and suddenly I was on my feet. The stiletto was in my coat pocket. Anna’s screams filled my ears.
I ran around the building and found a burning fire escape. I heard footsteps from above. A soldier wielding a shotgun crawled through an open window on the second floor and made his way down the fire escape.
He doused the flames with some kind of extinguisher mix. It killed enough of the flames so that he could climb down safely. He began descending. Before he set foot onto the gravel, I jerked him off the ladder by his legs. His body slammed down onto the street. I plunged my knee into his larynx, silencing him. He tried to fight back, but my weight restrained him from screaming.
I took the shotgun from him.
Once again, I heard Anna scream. Quickly, I stood up; my eyes traced the tiers of the fire escape to the top floor. Without thinking, I fired the shotgun into the soldier’s stomach. Startled by my own action, I peered down. The soldier squirmed around. Most of his guts stretched out across his chest and pelvis. It was a disgusting sight.
I winced in complete horror at what I had done.
Abruptly, a figure appeared on the landing above me. It was the sniper.
“Who are you?” the sniper yelled.
I realized his mistake before he had. The sniper came out onto the landing with his weapon relaxed. He should have been more careful.
Reacting quickly, I pumped the shotgun, reloading the chamber with a new shell. I fired twice at the sniper as he reached for his rifle.
The shells blew two large chunks off the man’s right and left shoulders. Within seconds, two severed arms clumped down onto the landing. The man screamed and fell onto the railing. He dangled for a moment before falling to the ground, hard. His body bounced once on the ground. Moments later, he stopped screaming.
I pumped the shotgun again. I felt incredible, powerful.
I ascended the fire escape. The second floor was mostly clear of flames. I climbed through an open window and into an office. I quickly glanced over the room. It was empty.
Then, I heard Anna’s screams coming from down the hall. I followed them through the darkness. I ran down a corridor and turned a corner. As the wallpaper pattern changed into a new pattern of green stripes, I noticed through an open doorway a pair of moving shadows. I entered the room and saw the large chainsaw soldier. His fist pulverized the once beautiful face of my Anna.
“Get off her!” I screamed, charging into the room. The large man leaned toward me as I charged. I fired the shotgun, but nothing happened. I pumped it and squeezed the trigger again, but nothing came out. I was out of ammunition.
The large man jumped to his feet, chainsaw in hand, and swung the blade at me. I deflected the blade with the shotgun. The force of the large soldier’s swing was so powerful that it knocked me completely off balance. I flew over a nearby oak desk, dislodging a stack of papers.
I rolled onto the ground and dropped the shotgun. Lying on the floor, I could see Anna’s body across the room. She slumped over. I studied her quickly; there was no sign of consciousness or even life.
Suddenly, I heard the roar of the chainsaw starting up. I looked up to see the large man wielding it above me. He swung the chainsaw down hard at me. Quickly, I rolled and dodged the blade. The saw scraped across the floor. It shredded the carpet fibers and the top of the floorboards. Threads, splinters, and fibers flew up, creating a small cloud of dust.
While lying on my back, I kicked the large man square in the jaw with both feet. He flew back against the desk. I jumped to my feet.
Again, I saw the chainsaw coming toward me. The chain rotated around the blade as it neared my face. I grabbed a lamp off the edge of a nearby table and shattered it across the soldier’s face. He dropped the saw and grabbed his face in his hands.
Now that I had a brief moment, my first instinct was to check Anna. I ran over to her. I couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive. She didn’t move and her face was covered in blood. Both cheeks were swollen.
“Anna? Anna?”
She didn’t respond to my voice. I rose sharply and faced the large man who was pulling shards of the broken lamp from his cheek and neck.
I walked over to him and pulled him off the desktop. He grabbed me with both hands, lifted me up from the floor, and rammed me into one of the walls. I felt a sharp pain course through my lower back.
The large man pulled me from the wall and rammed me into it again. Once again, the pain seared through me. He pulled me back a third time. This time I stabbed him in the upper shoulder twice with the stiletto. I knew the muscle I stabbed through would severely weaken his ability to use his left arm. He dropped me.
I left the stiletto in his shoulder. I stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to catch my breath. After the pain in my back finally
subsided, I leapt to my feet and grabbed the large soldier by the chin, pushing it upward. I punched his throat.
He fell over instantly. The handle of the stiletto hit the floor first, hammering the blade deeper into his back. He cried out in agony. I stomped onto the top of his right arm in order to restrain it.
I picked up the shotgun, and with all of my strength, I began pounding on his face with the butt of it. I struck over and over until his face was as bludgeoned as Anna’s.
Finally, I could no longer lift the shotgun. It had been so long since the large soldier had stopped moving. All that remained of his face was a mess of blood and bruises. I pulled the stiletto out of his shoulder, figuring it might be useful later on.
I rolled off him and lay on the floor next to him for a while. I knew he was still alive, but it didn’t matter.
I looked over at Anna’s body. I still wasn’t sure if she was dead or not.
Suddenly, I heard a series of explosions in the hall. Across from me the floor exploded and several splinters of the floorboard sprayed out all over the room. One nearly stabbed me in the leg.
The second floor of the building began catching fire. Downstairs various machines exploded in sequence like dominos; the entire building was coming down.
I tried to lift Anna. After several attempts, I was successful in throwing her body over my shoulder. I carried her out into the hall. It was slow moving. I had used up most of my strength fighting the chainsaw soldier. I managed to carry her out into the hall and part of the way back down it, but the rest of the hall was on fire. I kicked in the door next to me.
That room was not burning as badly as the others. I entered the room and ran for the window.
At the window, I looked down. It was possible for me to leap out onto the lower roof and then to the street from there. I leaned Anna against the wall for a moment. With one foot out of the window and over the ledge, I began to climb out.
I turned to grab Anna. Another explosion rang out. This one was close. Then another came. And another one followed that. The room was suddenly engulfed in flames. I heard the beginning of another explosion; this one launched me through the air and out of the window. In the instant before I took flight, I witnessed Anna’s body incinerate in a swift torrent of fire. She was dead, but just before she died, in that one brief moment, her eyes opened.
Violently, I landed on the top of the lower roof before another explosion sent me off and onto the street below. Shrapnel from the building had fallen over me, hiding me from the remaining Todesgruppen. That was where I remained until I awoke later.
79
In the bakery, I held the saw tightly in my hand and glared down at the large soldier.
I thought only one thing: chainsaw.
I swung the chainsaw. The blade cut through the large man’s left arm and severed it. The body part flung several feet and landed in an old cake. Blood streamed out of the hole and smeared across the white icing and the words “Happy Birthday.”
The large soldier screamed in anguish.
I stood still for a moment and relished the fear on the man’s face. I savored the sheer terror and power I felt. Peter Hitler was no more. Whoever I had been, whoever Peter was no longer mattered. What mattered now was satisfaction. I was almost satisfied but not quite yet.
Slowly, I followed the large man as he began to flee. He crawled on the floor as best he could without his limb. I never let him get more than a meter away. Before the man could reach the door, I sawed through his legs. The chainsaw struggled to saw completely through his thick legs and bones. The smell of saw dust and seared flesh filled the air. Screams filled my ears.
Moments later, the large man was in four pieces and very dead.
I stood over the mess of blood and body parts. I stared at a blank eggshell-colored wall in front of me. Like a canvas from long ago, it called to me. I felt a madness I hadn’t felt since I’d tortured that lion those years ago. And I felt a strong desire, an impulse, a vice, a need. I needed to paint.
I only had one source of paint to use and not much time. The Nazi soldiers were ramming the front doors of the bakery, trying to get in. I had locked the door just before I’d picked up the chainsaw. Still, I wondered what was taking them so long. Then I thought maybe they recognized me and were looking for my father.
“My father,” I snickered. “What a lie.”
My madness became my art. I picked up a cooking brush lying in a jar full of stainless steel kitchen utensils. I dipped the bristles into the pool of blood that leaked out from the dismembered corpse.
I painted on the blank wall. Brush strokes swept across the white wall until a distinct and ferocious shape formed. Blood splattered everywhere and dripped down the wall.
Several minutes later, I was finished with my painting of blood. I stepped back to view the first painting I had done in years. Standing five or so meters from it, I smirked.
It was a creature I would be forever linked with. It was the most feared and vicious animal in the world, a lion, painted in the blood of my enemy.
Suddenly, my mind relapsed again into a distant memory. It was a memory I had forgotten from years ago. I struggled with it. I fought it. At the same time, the Nazi soldiers broke through the front doors of the bakery. They made their way in and entered the kitchen.
At first, the soldiers were appalled. They couldn’t believe what I had done. An officer stepped over the limbs and blood. He approached me and put his hands on my shoulders.
The soldier, not knowing what to say, said, “Sohn des Kanzlers, are you all right?”
I did not answer.
The officer repeated, “Peter? Are you all right?”
“My name is Willem Kessler,” I replied.
The soldiers looked up at the drawing on the wall.
They stared at the lion painted in blood.
Chapter Eleven
Black Lion Rising
80
The soldiers did not know what to do with me. They weren’t sure if they were authorized to detain me or not. In any other scenario, they would have just shot me. If I were someone else and not the Führer’s son, I would have been dead where I stood.
“Peter, come with us,” the officer said. He grabbed me by the arm. I did not fight them. I dropped the blood-soaked brush. Droplets of blood streaked out of the bristles as the brush hit the ground.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To see your father,” the officer responded.
I was brought down to the basement of a hotel. It was a very large, abandoned room. I knew what was in store for me the moment Beowulf entered. He leaned against the back wall, smoking a cigarette.
Neither of us spoke a word. We sat there waiting, staring each other down.
We waited for over an hour. My father must have still been returning. I did not care. I was not afraid. Even though I was shackled to a chair in the middle of the room, I did not fear. I looked at Beowulf with cold eyes.
Beowulf approached me. Within the last hour, he had circled me several times. Like a wolf circling his prey, Beowulf studied me.
Finally, he spoke, “Peter. You are different. I can’t quite place it, but I sense something is exceptional about you.”
“Willem,” I said.
“What?” Beowulf asked.
“My name is not Peter. It’s Willem.”
“Well, you are different,” Beowulf repeated.
“How so?” I asked.
“It’s your eyes. You have the eyes of a killer now, and not just any killer, an assassin. How many men did you kill today? Five? Six? Shit, you may have killed more.”
Beowulf stopped talking. We heard footsteps. Several men approached from the staircase. Out of the shadows, Hitler’s was the first face I saw.
“Son? What’s going on?” Hitler asked, walking close to me. Before he got within whispering distance, Beowulf stopped him.
“What’s the meaning of this? Why is he strapped up like this?” Hitler said.
“Ask him who he is,” Beowulf said.
“Who he is? This is my son. Now unlock him,” Hitler said. He became red and infuriated. “Unlock him."
Beowulf stood by and did nothing. Hitler drew a pistol from his coat.
“Unlock him,” Hitler said while pointing the pistol at Beowulf.
Beowulf did not try to explain further; instead, he did as he was told.
Once freed, I rose and stared coldly at Hitler.
“Son, what is the meaning of all of this?” Hitler asked, still pointing the pistol at Beowulf.
I looked nightmarish. My clothes were still dirty from the night before. I hadn’t slept. My face was covered in dirt and ash and blood.
“Peter?” Hitler said.
I stood a couple of paces from Hitler. After a long pause I spoke: “I’m not Peter. My name is Willem Kessler, and you are the son of a bitch who murdered my father, my mother, and stole my life.”
Suddenly, I was grappling the gun from Hitler’s hand. Once I had it, I spun the Führer completely around. I made him my hostage, while pointing the gun at Beowulf.
Beowulf was fast. He already had his own gun pointed at my face.
“No!” Hitler barked at Beowulf from under my grasp. “Don’t shoot him.”
“We can’t let you leave here,” Beowulf said. "You know this.”
“Who said anything about leaving?” I replied.
“Peter, you are my son. I’m not sure who told you these lies, but you are my son,” Hitler said, trying to squirm out of my grip.
“Shut up! Just shut up! You are not my father. I remember now. I remember. My mother told me the truth. She told me my father’s real name long ago. You killed my father and mother,” I said desperately.
Hitler’s eyes widened.
“Son, don’t do anything stupid. Do you want to just leave? You can do that. We’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” Hitler said, trying to squirm out of my grip.
“I want to go home,” I said. I pulled the hammer back on the pistol.