Man with the Iron Heart

by Mat Nastos

  “Please excuse my esteemed colleague, Herr Himmler. The stress of our work on saving the life of the Reichsprotektor has gotten to us all,” said Frank, flashing his closest friend a look filled with daggers and fire. “Come, see what has been done and our success.”

  A flick of Frank’s wrist sent the crimson-stained sheet that had kept Heydrich’s form hidden from view fluttering off, revealing all that had been done to the man. Endless black wires and tubes flowed into and out of a large, black, iron device that had been mounted onto Heydrich’s chest, completely encasing it. Every inch of the device seemed to be covered in strange, unearthly runes that glowed and pulsed in tandem with the neon tubes spread about the room, echoing the tempo of the fallen man’s breathing.

  In the center of the chest-plate was something that shouldn’t have existed – an engine that spun in a hole that seemed to go farther in than a normal man’s body could contain.

  Frank watched as Himmler stared into the space behind the engine, where the man could see the writing of some great creature that rested out beyond the edge of perception. He was aware Himmler’s mind wouldn’t allow him to perceive the true nature of the beast without falling into madness, and he was right. Himmler shut his eyes and turned away.

  A large helm containing the same runes and wiring as the chest-plate covered the top half of Heydrich’s skull, masking his eyes and leaving only his mouth and chin free.

  “As you can see, Herr Himmler,” continued Frank once he felt Himmler had seen enough, “we have reconfigured one of the cold iron machines from the Kelheim operation and have begun the process of bonding them to our comrade’s body.” Waving his thin, tired hand toward his lover, Frank continued, “Ludwig designed the breastplate to encase Reinhard’s wounds… it has opened a gateway to the other side and will heal the Reichsprotektor completely. In fact, if our calculations are correct, he’ll be better, stronger, far more powerful than before. Herr Heydrich will be able to tap into the power of the Jotnar.”

  The flickering will-o-wisp lights danced off of Himmler’s glasses. The man was caught by the display laid out in the large room. Although the specifics of what he and Wittgenstein had done was far beyond Himmler’s understanding, it was clear the man recognized pure power when he saw it.

  Fear again struck Frank when he saw the lust for that power in Himmler’s eyes.

  Wittgenstein spoke up, and Frank hoped his lover would step wisely. “If all goes as well as we predict, Herr Heydrich’s… misfortune… may wind up being our key to accessing more power than the Edda Society has ever dreamed of. We could become one with the Old Ones themselves.”

  Frank knew that tone; despite the lack of sleep the last days had brought, Wittgenstein was overly pleased with himself and the results the two of them had made. Five years of Ludwig’s life had gone into breaching the barriers between worlds and success was the man’s at last. Not even Wittgenstein’s disgust with the Nazis and their repulsive warlords was enough to sour the man’s mood.

  “For your sake, Herr Wittgenstein, your calculations had best be correct,” said Himmler, his eyes never leaving the body of his friend laid out on the operating table. “For both of your sakes.”

  A shudder began to play in the left foot of Heydrich. It was a small twitch at first, hardly noticeable at all, but it quickly became violent, knocking the soiled hospital sheet free. The tremors spread up the Nazi commander’s body, the ferocity of the convulsions threatening to throw thenearly-bloodless form from the table.

  The cadre of doctors, which had until then kept quiet and hidden from the madman’s attention, leapt into action, surrounding Heydrich’s body like a swarm of hungry ants. Some moved in to restrain the flailing patient, attempting to keep him still enough for others to check the pulse and temperature. The white-gloved hands of Hitler’s physician, Doctor Gebhardt, seemed to be everywhere at once as the group worked to discover what was going on.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Himmler’s voice was little more than a harsh whisper, nearly lost amongst the chaos the room had been thrust into.

  “He’s dying, Herr Reichsführer,” said Doctor Gebhardt to his master. “There’s been too much blood loss. Toxicity, damage to his internal organs… it’s all killing Herr Heydrich faster than we can repair the damage.”

  In a flash, Wittgenstein and Frank were staring down the business end of the small Walther PP handgun that Himmler carried with him during every waking hour. The man’s grip on the weapon was as tight as the line forming between his darkening eyes. A mass exodus of pushing bodies vacated the area around Heydrich’s bed. No one present trusted what Himmler would do next, least of all Frank.

  “Why are your damned machines not working?” Himmler said, thrusting the gun into Frank’s thin chest and nearly doubling the man over with force and frustration. “Make them work!”

  “They aren’t light switches, blast you!” snapped Wittgenstein, completely forgetting his promise to Frank to curb his tongue. “Without a life-force to initiate and maintain the connection, a bridge cannot be formed across the Yawning Void to Niflheimr! We need power!”

  The line between Himmler’s eyes deepened as the Nazi considered Wittgenstein’s words. The black-barreled pistol swayed slowly back and forth between the two men who pressed themselves away from the deadly end of its barrel. “A ‘life-force’, you say? Any life-force?”

  “Yes,” responded Wittgenstein with more courage than Frank had seen the man display in a long time, forcing himself to move between Frank and the Nazi weapon being pointed at them both.

  “Excellent,” smiled Himmler, brightening noticeably.

  Blood geysered into the air as four bullets – squeezed off efficiently and without emotion by the Reichsführer – punched into an unsuspecting Professor Walter Diek. So sudden was the attack that it took the man a full five seconds to realize that the hot, thick fluid draining down his chest and onto the legs of his slacks was his own blood. His mouth that twitched open and closed, like a fish caught on dry land. Only wet, wretched breath tore from lungs quickly filling with liquid. Professor Diek dropped to his knees.

  “Thank you for your service to the Third Reich, Herr Professor,” nodded Himmler sincerely. The Nazi turned back to the startled scientists and addressed them matter-of-factly. “That life-force will suffice, yes?”

  Neither Frank nor Wittgenstein moved, frozen by the pure, cold-hearted callousness of Himmler’s actions. They could only stand and stare at the crimson puddle forming around the stocky man with whom they had so recently worked.

  Eyes narrowing at the inaction of his subordinates, Himmler hissed, “What are you waiting for, you fools? Use him before he dies!”

  Ludwig Wittgenstein was in motion before Frank could recover from the horror he had just witnessed. Stifling a series of colorful metaphors, Wittgenstein bellowed out a series of orders to the mob of Czech doctors who cowered as far from the Nazi murderer as was physically possible in the operating suite.

  “Hurry! The essence is fading and we must grab the spark before it goes out!”

  Grabbing Wittgenstein’s shoulder, Frank nearly spun the man out of his shoes in protest. “But we can’t just–”

  Hissing, Wittgenstein snapped back, “We are on thin ground here, my friend. If we value our lives, we must walk softly.”

  The complete ridiculousness of his friend’s declaration was not lost on Frank, and it took every ounce of his formidable willpower to keep a laugh from pushing past his clenched teeth. “You are a fine one to warn of walking lightly with our masters, dearest Ludwig. After all, we would not be knee-deep in this mess were it not for your over-curious imagination.”

  A sly grin – the one that had originally attracted Frank to Wittgenstein when they had met at the Vienna Opera House ten years earlier – was the only response given by the younger man as the two launched feverishly into their work. Urgency powered all hand
s present as wires were run from the fading, gore-soaked Professor Diek into the increasingly-cold machine bound about the body of Reinhard Heydrich.

  Catching a soul before it fled was a tricky thing and not easily accomplished, even by men as skilled as Frank and Wittgenstein. The last time they had attempted such a thing – deep within the Kelheim Forest of Germany – they had failed horribly for the Nazis. But from that mighty explosion of light and arcane power had stepped the formidable form of Donner Grimm, a war cry on his lips and revenge in his blood..

  They’d barely escaped with their lives. Grimm’s roar for vengeance had rattled Frank’s bones, the ground shaken as the Viking had thundered after them. Some nights he still woke in a fear-soaked sweat.

  A watchful glare from Himmler promised that should they fail again, the arcane scientists would not find the results as pleasant.

  The final breath of Professor Walter Diek was snared by the machines – a tiny, bright moth fluttering along the tubes – and for a moment, all became eerily quiet… except for the fluttering of the moth.

  Thick, dusty glass, set deep into the solid window panes bent and flexed, threatening to shatter from the force of the scream that tore itself from somewhere deep inside the rapidly-cooling corpse of Professor Diek. Dead eyes snapped open, and the deceased man’s jaws locked wide. His tongue lolled flaccidly as that terrifying screech reached a crescendo..

  An instant later, the scream was echoed by Reinhard Heydrich. For the briefest of moments, the two bodies sang a duet of pain and torment before Professor Diek fell silent, fading to an unnaturally-ashen gray.

  The shrieking from Heydrich turned into a ghoulish howl that seemed to come as much from the very aether itself as it did from the man uttering it. All around, the cold iron machines bleated and flashed in unison with the howl, answering it and welcoming it.

  When silence fell once more, it took nearly a minute before any of the men and women still in the room dared speak.

  It was a tiny whisper from Himmler, barely more than a mouse’s squeak, that snapped everyone out of their fear-induced stupor. “What has happened here?”

  In response, the blood-crusted hand of Reinhard Heydrich with its mass of writhing wires trailing behind, quivered and rose slowly from its bed of white hospital sheets. Fingers, now claw-like and trembling like a newborn, touched the dark helm covering his face, exploring. The runic lights once dominating the faceplate of the protective device winked out of existence with the caress.

  “We’ve done it, Herr Himmler,” answered Frank once the trauma had drained itself from the paralyzing hold it had on his vocal cords. “We’ve breached the barrier between our worlds and connected with the Others.”

  Moving forward to better see the fruits of his experiments, of his decades of research and work, Ludwig Wittgenstein added, “Our friend is now beyond the power of death itself… at least for now.” To the attending physicians still cowering near the rear of the room, the arcane scientist and philosopher ordered, “Doktors, attend to your patient.”

  With cautious steps, the doctors and nurses of Bulovka Hospital surrounded the twitching form of Heydrich and began their examinations. By all accounts, the man was alive and many of his once-terminal wounds had already begun closing on their own. It was a miracle.

  Ever-watchful, Frank spied Himmler close to Ludwig, fingers wrapped around Wittgenstein’s upper arm in an iron grip, causing the Death’s Head ring worn on Himmler’s little finger to cut painfully into the thin flesh of the digit.

  “What do you mean ‘at least for now’? Will the Reichsprotektor recover?” It was clear Himmler was wary of every move the scientists made and every word they spoke. Although both had been pliable-enough pawns for the Edda Society so far, Frank knew the Nazi didn’t fully trust their loyalty to the cause or to the best interests of the Third Reich itself.

  Yanking his arm away, Wittgenstein responded as he tried to rub feeling back into the abused limb. “Oh yes. The body of Reinhard Heydrich will recover. His wounds will heal and he will not die this day. But it will take far more energy to complete the process. Bringing one of the Jotnar across the Void takes a great deal of energy and, for now, we have formed only the merest tendril of a connection.”

  “Is it enough?” Every ounce of Himmler’s attention was anchored on the steady movement of Heydrich’s breath and the firefly dance of eldritch power that had begun to glimmer across his body.

  “The man… whatever is left of Reinhard Heydrich… will always hunger for more,” added Frank with an unhidden tone of disgust that went unnoticed by either of the men he spoke to. Neither Wittgenstein nor Himmler could pull their eyes or full attention from the spectacle playing out before them. “He will never be satiated.”

  The sickly light that glowed from outside of time reflected on the pale skin of Himmler’s face, turning his ever widening grin into that of a skull. His perfectly-manicured hand reached out slowly, timidly, to brush the side of the black metal cylinder binding his friend to unfathomable power. A shock of energy, not unlike that of electricity, arced out, dancing up Himmler’s arm, ripping a tiny moan of pleasure and pain from him as it deadened nerves and blistered his skin.

  An orgasmic giggle twittered from the Reichsführer. “That is as it should be, Herr Frank.” Himmler was finally able to return to the conversation Frank was sure the man had only been half-listening to. “The powerful will always devour the weak. It is the way of the world.”

  * * *

  Himmler strode to the drab, green-painted double doors leading out of the operating suite and into the outer halls, and called for the band of black-clad SS soldiers waiting outside to join him. At their lead was a man of modest build and appearance that often had those he met mistaking him for a former accountant who had been drafted into Hitler’s army. The plain countenance of thinning, sandy-brown hair, soft green eyes and a weak chin hid beneath it one of Himmler’s most ardent of followers. Corporal Simon Krupke was a man who had never once balked at an order from his master, regardless of how distasteful it might be.

  “Corporal, I seem to remember reading reports of a small gypsy town nearby… one whose citizens had been very vocal about the liberation of their company by the Fatherland. Do you know of the place I speak?”

  “Ja,” responded the soldier, trying to keep his eyes off of the insanity before him. “Lidice. About thirty kilometers to the Northwest. There have been minor disputes between the Romani and our patrols.”

  “Lidice.” Himmler allowed the name to roll back and forth across his tongue, savoring it. “That is it. Sturmscharführer Krupke, you will take a battalion to this Lidice and bring Herr Professors volunteers… the men should satisfy the needs for their work.”

  “And the women? Children?”

  “Send them off to Theresienstadt. The work camps there will suit them nicely.” Himmler smiled to himself at the thought. It would be good for the gypsies to finally be of some use to the Reich.

  “Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer!” Krupke disappeared from the room in a swirl of black and silver and the pounding of hard leather boots.

  Through the doorway, Himmler watched disgust flash across the faces of his two scientists. Weak men of weaker breeding.

  “Come, my dear friends,” chuckled Himmler at the men’s poorly-hidden discomfort. “It is far too late for you to become squeamish. You should rejoice. It is your efforts… your genius… that has laid the groundwork for this. Finally, you have your breakthrough and you will have the appreciation of both my brothers in the Edda Society and of the Third Reich itself. Your names will be honored in the history books!”

  Hard boots stomping on the cool, tiled floor of the hospital’s halls and the harsh bang of doors being flung open interrupted Himmler’s celebration. Hans Hagan, apparently tired of waiting in the tiny offices of the hospital’s lower floors for his master’s appearance, barged into the surgical are
na, flanked by a trio of his Schwarzbär men, each bigger than the next.

  “What is it now!” cursed Himmler, striding back into the room. If there was one thing he hated with the fires of the sun itself, it was to be interrupted by those the German considered beneath his time or patience. Unfortunately for Hagan, as important as he was in his tiny domain, he fell firmly into that category.

  “The rebel scum responsible for the attack on our beloved Reichsprotektor have been slain, Herr Reichsführer!” Hagan snapped to attention with such force Himmler was convinced he could hear the bones of the man’s spine crack.

  “Where?”

  Hagan barked out a genuine, full-bodied laugh. “We discovered the cowards hiding behind the walls of a church right here in the city. The fools were too stupid to run. We killed them to the man.”

  “And the One-Eye’s pawn?” Himmler asked the question with tentative hope. The bastard had been a thorn in the side of the Edda Society for months since he had first appeared. “What of Donner Grimm?”

  Another full-bellied laugh rumbled from Hagan. “He is dead, sir.” Hagan paused, allowing the words to sink in before he continued. “He and his worthless English servants… all slain at the hands of the necrogolems.”

  Dark eyes narrowed behind the wire frames of Heinrich Himmler’s glasses. “Where is the body… his battered, beaten body? Show it to me at once!”

  “The corpse of Odin’s lackey was lost in the rubble… ground to dust!” Hagan grinned widely, flashing teeth that had become too sharp from the excitement welling up in him. Himmler saw man’s vanity as Hagan thought this was his time. His chance to impress the Reichsführer himself!

  The response from Himmler knocked the wind from the man’s chest far more painfully than any blow ever had.

  “You are as much a fool as your pathetic Eicke,” sneered Himmler, blasting the soldier with the full force of his aura. “Scour the ruins and make sure the scion of Odin is dead. Bring back his head, his belt, and his sword. The Jotnar will demand the symbols of the Aesir as a sacrifice. Do not return to me without them. And do not fail me.”