Witnesses

by Anthony Watson

  We had split into smaller groups to search the city, although we were under no illusions that we would find any of the murderous German troops. A sense of failure hung over us all once more. I chose to walk alone, the weight of responsibility bearing heavily upon me. It was selfish, I knew, to feel sorry for myself when so many innocent people had had their lives taken, or destroyed, but I feel I must be honest in my diary entries and that is exactly how I did feel. How I still do, despite the events that were still at that time to unfold.

  My wanderings took me to the main town square, a huge, cobbled expanse surrounded by impressive, towering buildings, most notable a cathedral with a towering spire. Fires burned all around the square, inside some of the buildings, sending up plumes of black smoke that darkened the skies above. A cloud hung over the city like some hideous miasma. Bodies lay strewn around the square, too, flung here and there like discarded dolls.

  Such devastation. I could not bring myself to walk through the square. For some reason, I felt vulnerable. I turned away from the square, made my way into one of the many streets that opened out into it. I walked for a few more minutes until the street opened out onto another square, this one smaller than the one I had just left, though no less impressive. Ornate metal signs affixed to the wall told me this was the Grote Markt, a name I assumed meant “great square”. My Belgian is non-existent, but I did know Markt was the word for square, and it took no massive leap of the imagination to guess at the meaning of the descriptor. It too was surrounded by tall buildings, their beautiful, ornate design testament to the skills of their medieval architects and builders. Gothic turrets, buttresses and spires were in abundance here, and again the incomprehension at how anyone could bring themselves to destroy such beauty and magnificence struck me.

  At the far end of the square stood the most impressive building of all. The desecrators had obviously been as impressed with it as I was, as they had chosen this building to destroy, to convey whatever warped message it was they intended. Fires still burned within the building, the flames visible even from where I stood on the opposite side of the square.

  With a heavy heart, I made my way across the square to the building. The square itself was deserted. I was alone, and again that feeling of vulnerability crept over me. Halfway across I was startled by what sounded like the distressed cry of a baby but which turned out to be the hissing shriek of a cat that ran away from me as I disturbed it from where it had been lying behind an overturned vegetable cart. As I watched the animal scamper away, I saw an arm poking from behind the cart, blood dripping slowly from outspread fingers.

  As I began my slow progress across the square once more, I saw the sign above the door of the building that I was approaching, the one I now felt I was being drawn towards. Bibliotheek was inscribed in the stone mantel above the impressive doorway. I had come to the library.

  Despite the fires burning within, I felt compelled to enter the building. Despite the obvious danger, something, some force, was drawing me onwards.

  I know how this must sound. Here, now as I write these words, I feel almost embarrassed. And yet, as I have stated before, this must be as truthful an account as I can make it, and so I must ignore such feelings and write down everything I have experienced. What I did experience there in the Grote Markt was a compulsion to go into that burning building.

  Perhaps it was what – or rather who – I found within the burning library that had been exerting that influence over me. Entering through the doorway, I found myself in a huge open area that formed the downstairs floor of the library. The heat from the fires burning within hit me at once, and I felt the skin on my face tighten in response. Tears filled my eyes, but I feel these may have been due more to my feelings of anguish at the desecration unfolding before me as the intense heat that assailed me.

  And still I walked on, into the flames, driven on by whatever ineffable force had gripped me. I passed beneath a stone arch leading into the building’s interior. The main fire was above me, eating its way through the thousands of books that crowded the shelves on the upper floor. Embers floated in the air. Every now and then, burning debris would fall from above to explode in showers of sparks as they hit the floor. Thick, black smoke clung to the ceiling high above like a huge thundercloud. Though instead of rain, soot and ash drifted down from it. Glancing down, I saw that the shoulders of my uniform were coated in the stuff, turning the khaki to black. I took off my cap and brushed away the soot from its top, leaving dark smudges on it as I did so. I coughed, the hot, sooty air irritating my throat.

  I continued walking into the library, my feet scuffing the ash coating the wooden floor. The flames cast huge shadows, which shifted and churned on the stone walls. The compulsion to keep on walking was growing stronger all the time. It was as if I had fallen into some kind of trance. I was completely unconcerned about the danger my situation presented. I had to find out what it was that had drawn me here.

  I was Dante, entering the inferno, but I had no poet companion to guide me through my Divine Comedy.

  I reached the burning remains of what had once been – as far as I could tell – a huge desk. The bottom half of one leg was all that remained of it, the rest turned into smoking piles of ash. The spine of a book lay amidst the ashes, the leather itself smouldering in the intense heat.

  “You have come!”

  I turned quickly, startled by the voice that had emanated from behind, and above, me. I looked upon a staircase leading to the upper level of the library. A wooden staircase that somehow, miraculously, remained untouched by the fire. The voice had come from the top of the stairs, but the speaker was hidden behind the roiling black clouds of smoke that had collected there.

  “Who’s there? Who spoke?” I cried out.

  No reply was forthcoming so I repeated my queries. As I watched, a figure began to emerge from the smoke, feet first as he descended the staircase. Within seconds he was completely out of the smoke, and I could see that he was dressed in the uniform (itself strangely unscathed by the fire) of a Hauptmann.

  “Dreschler?” I whispered.

  He continued his descent of the staircase, and as he did so the stairs behind him, over which he had just passed, burst into flames. By the time he reached the foot of the stairs, and was walking towards me, arm outstretched to offer me a handshake, the whole staircase was alight, a tower of fire burning behind him.

  I reached out my hand to take his. “Hauptmann Carl Dreschler,” he said, in heavily accented English, grasping my hand tightly and clicking his heels together, “at your service.”

  And so it was that I accepted his surrender. That moment of contact seemed to break the spell that I had been under and, suddenly, I was very aware of the danger all around me. The events that followed are something of a blur now (as I write this I wonder if my experiences in the library were somehow so profound that my poor mind has been overwhelmed and is unable to retain the memories of everything that followed). Suffice to say the Hauptmann is now under armed guard, awaiting full interrogation.

  We have already ascertained, however, that his mission is at an end, and so the day has brought some success with it. I can take no pride in this, however. The indications are that Leuven was always going to be the place where the atrocities would end. My – our – presence here has had no bearing on that decision. We must be thankful, though, the slaughter of the innocents has come to a close.

  Dreschler is not what I expected. Though anything short of a demonic monster would probably not have matched the expectations I had built up during my pursuit of the man. There is a calmness about him, a serenity even. He is not the blood-crazed maniac we had all convinced ourselves we were pursuing.

  His men are gone, disbanded, already on their way back to join their divisions long before we arrived in the city. Dreschler was not left behind accidentally. It was a conscious decision on his part to remain in Leuven and to await our arrival. He knew he would be arrested, would face trial for the atrocities he has
perpetrated.

  And yet he remains calm and collected, something that disconcerts me greatly. Tomorrow we return to our own lines; our part in this mission is also at an end. Dreschler will be handed over to the appropriate authorities and his interrogation will begin.

  I believe they will have quite a task getting anything from this enigmatic man.

  * * *

  He had sat looking at the words on his monitor for half an hour before Dave realised that he wasn’t going to add to his word count. The flashing cursor taunted him, a visible display of his lack of productivity. “Bollocks,” he said, and got up to make a cup of tea.

  It wasn’t just the hangover that was preventing him from working (from thinking), it was also the fact that he had no room inside his head to focus on his thesis. All his processing capacity was being used by all the weird shit that was happening to him. The ghosts of dead soldiers was one thing; being stalked by some creepy bloke without an aura was another. And, shit, how weird was that thought? How surreal that he was now using the whole aura thing as a measure of normality. His stalker was somehow dodgier because he didn’t have one. How fucked-up was that? “Bollocks,” he said again. It was obviously the word of the day.

  He turned the tap on with more force than it actually required and jumped back from the sink as water splashed out of the kettle. “Shit!” He replaced the kettle on its stand and rooted around in the cupboard for the teabags. He swore again when he realised he hadn’t turned the kettle on.

  Five minutes later he was back at his desk, staring once more at the flashing cursor, provocative little bastard that it was. He rifled through the papers strewn across the desk, hoping the distraction might prove inspirational, but still the ideas refused to come.

  The page currently on screen was his progress so far of his analysis of flight 653, the hijacked Air Malaysia flight. He was determined to get the chapter into his thesis somehow, but it was proving difficult to manufacture a way of doing so. He didn’t want to give up on it, though. Even though it was proving difficult, he felt that he should make the effort and include it. Actually, compelled wasn’t too strong a word to describe how he felt about it. Irrational, that was another good word, he thought, but then rational wasn’t how his world was turning out to be just lately.

  A knock at the door disturbed his reverie, and he quickly got up from the desk (almost eagerly) and trotted downstairs to open the door.

  “All right?” said Mickey, grinning at Dave as the door opened. “I brought these.” He reached out his arm to display the four pack of cans he’d brought with him. “Just in case…”

  Dave went through the motions of mock annoyance at the interruption, but then grinned back and motioned Mickey inside with a quick backwards tilt of his head. “You better come in then.”

  Mickey strode into the living room as Dave closed the door behind him. Radiohead blared out of the room, We hope that you choke, that you choke…

  “Shit, mate, are things that bad?” Mickey asked. “Let me know before you move onto Leonard Cohen – there’s still time to get help.”

  “Ha bloody ha. Anyway, it’s on shuffle. Be something more uplifting on in a minute. You gonna keep nursing those cans or is one of them for me?”

  Mickey pulled a can from the plastic grip and tossed it to Dave before collapsing onto the sofa. “There you go!”

  Dave popped the tab on his can and took a deep slurp of beer as he sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa. “That’s better! So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Mickey replied, supping his own beer. “Just thought I’d pop round and check up on you. You seemed a little – delicate – when we parted company last night.”

  “Yeah, well, my own fault. I didn’t have to consume quite so much alcohol.”

  “Cheers to that!” Mickey raised his can in a toast.

  “But I’m feeling better – marginally better – now thanks. Got stuck on this bloody thesis, though.”

  “Mm. Can’t really help you there, mate. As I’m prone to saying, that’s a bit beyond my area of expertise.”

  “Yeah, I know, and I will get past it. I’ve just hit a bit of a wall. By the way, what is your area of expertise?”

  Mickey shrugged in a “beats me” gesture.

  Radiohead faded to a close to be replaced by REM banging out It’s the End of the World as we Know It. “Certainly felt like it last night,” Dave said. “I was soooo ill.”

  “Can’t take it like you used to.”

  “Couldn’t really take it then…”

  Mickey took another swig. “So, any more weird shit been happening?”

  “No,” Dave lied, “but then I only saw you last night.”

  “Agreed, but you know weird shit doesn’t respect man-made timetables.”

  “Well known fact. I did feel like I was floating above the bed last night. I think the reason for that’s a wee bit more prosaic.”

  “So, you’re okay then?”

  “Honestly, I…” Dave cocked his head towards the iPod, waited a moment for Michael Stipe’s lyrics to catch up, “… I feel fine.”

  The conversation meandered along for another half hour. Consumption of the last few drops of alcohol marked a natural end to proceedings. “Right,” Mickey said, getting to his feet, “I’ll let you get on then.”

  “Cheers mate, and thanks for coming around. I appreciate it.”

  “Aw shucks, it was nothing.”

  They made their way to the front door. “Right then, I’m off.” Mickey stepped out onto the pavement, shuddered as a gust of wind pushed past him, and began walking along the street.

  “See you later, mate,” Dave called after him. He closed the door, smiling, happy to have had the distraction his friend’s visit had provided. A niggle of worry gnawed at his stomach, though, Mickey had been his usual, ebullient, entertaining self, but Dave had noticed a change in him, a change only he could notice. Mickey’s aura had for some reason turned black.

  * * *

  Dr Henry Ball closed his book and placed it on the bedside table along with his spectacles. Reaching over, he turned off the bedside lamp and shuffled back under the covers. Dim light from the streetlight just outside his apartment in the grounds of the Lynchburg Colony filtered in around the edges of the drawn curtains.

  A crash from downstairs startled him, set his heart pounding. He sat up, fumbled in the darkness for his glasses and jammed them onto his face.

  Another crash, louder, closer, had him out of bed, feet shoved into slippers…

  The hall light was turned on, spilled in through the gap around the door, a rectangle of yellow in the darkness of the room. Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs.

  “Dear God,” he had time to mutter, before the bedroom door flew open, slamming against the wall. Chris Dean stood in the doorway.

  “You bastard!” he shouted, striding across the room to grab the doctor by the throat, choking the man’s scream.

  He threw the doctor against the wall, the man’s head making a ghastly sound as it impacted. His limp body slid down the wall, leaving behind a thin streak of red.

  “You bastard!” Chris screamed again, even though his victim was beyond the point of being able to hear him. He grabbed the prone body, pulled it away from the wall. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a knife, exposing its blade with a quick flick of his wrist. Bending over, he went to work with the blade, and soon the thin streak on the wall was lost amidst so much more redness.

  * * *

  “Dilly…” Her name was whispered gently. “Dilly…” This time slightly louder, just enough to wake her from her slumber.

  “Chris!”

  Immediately he shushed her, placing a finger to his lips. “You be quiet, darlin’,” he whispered. “Everything’s okay now. I’m here.”

  * * *

  The ambush took place on the crest of a hill deep within the woods. Before they knew it, they were upon them, a snarlin
g, shrieking horde of creatures, deformed and ugly, some with horns, some with scales instead of skin, some whose tongues darted from their mouths like those of snakes, sensing the air around them, forked and black in colour.

  Demons. There could be no other word for them.

  A surprise attack, of course. Church’s men had had no reason to expect such an attack, so far behind their own lines. Complacency had set in, understandably. Their mission was complete. All that remained was to transport their prisoner back to base, where he would be interrogated.

  All dead. Massacred. Torn asunder, their bodies violated by the ravening horde.

  All dead, save one.

  Church looked on in horror as his men were killed around him, watched their death throes, saw the atrocities the monsters were perpetrating. Surely these… creatures were not the ones who had carried out the massacres in Aarschot and Andenne, in Tamines, Dinant and Leuven? Survivors had told of no such thing. It was men. Evil men, to be sure, but only men who had brought about the rape of those towns and cities.

  These were no men.

  These were creatures from Hell, of that he had no doubt. As the last shrieks died out, Dreschler, who had stood alongside him through it all, placed an arm on his shoulder. “Their sacrifice was not in vain,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “Their deaths were necessary to allow us to fulfil our destiny.”

  Church swung round, anger boiling in him. “Our destiny?”

  “Yes, our destiny Dominic,” Dreschler interrupted. He placed his arm on Church’s shoulder again. “Come, we have much to talk about.”

  * * *

  The phone kept on ringing but Mickey still didn’t pick up. This was the third time Dave had tried getting through to his friend. On this occasion, it wasn’t to be third time lucky.