by T. Frohock
Taking a step backward, Diago opened the table’s drawer and withdrew a blank requisition, which he placed facedown on the surface. He located a grubby pencil and set it beside the paper. Keeping his knife in one hand, he gestured to the stool with the other. “Come on, Martinez. Sit and draw me a map.”
Martinez shook his head. “I can’t. I just got here yesterday.”
“Do the best you can.” Diago tugged the frightened youth free of Guillermo’s arm and directed him to the stool. “Here, right here.”
Martinez sat. Diago rested one hand on his shoulder, all the while keeping his blade close to the youth’s throat.
He spoke gently. “How many levels are in the compound?”
“Four underground, three above.”
“Let’s focus on the underground.”
Martinez whispered, “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
“Draw me a map.” Diago glanced at Guillermo, who monitored the walkway. But he’s hanging on to our every word.
“I can’t draw.” A soft sob. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Draw four lines.”
Martinez scratched four shaky lines.
“Is this the surface?” Diago pointed to the top line.
“No. The fourth level is underground. The surface begins here.” Martinez drew three more lines and encased them in a rough dome. Then he touched the dome’s first floor.
“Where are we?”
Martinez touched the very bottom line, indicating they were in the deepest part of the basements.
“What’s above us?”
“The second level is the prison and interrogation rooms. The third is the infirmary and where some of the choruses are kept.”
“What do you mean, ‘the choruses’?”
“They’re the ones who maintain the pocket realm and the portals. They never stop singing.” Martinez licked his lips and shivered. “Ever.”
Diago glanced at Guillermo, who merely frowned at the information. “How do they never stop singing?”
“The Germans are in charge of them. When one dies, they bring another to replace him.”
Diago stifled a shudder of his own. “Are they all on the third level?” Because if they were, shutting down this pocket realm might be easier than they initially thought.
“No. There are groups on each level, except the prison level.”
Of course there were. Nothing was going to be easy. “Where was Espina when you last left him?”
“Second level. That’s where he took Feran.”
Find Feran and Espina, find the notebook. “You did well, Martinez. Now sit still. I’m going to sing you to sleep and then all this will be over.”
He sheathed his knife and moved his hand from Martinez’s shoulder to his cheek, brushing a tear from the corner of the youth’s eye. Let his last memory from this life be the kindness of a quick death.
“Will it hurt?” Martinez whispered.
“No.” Diago grabbed Martinez’s chin and twisted his head upward and at an angle, hard enough to snap his neck.
The dark sound of Martinez’s death oozed through his lips as if his song were reluctant to release its mortal coil. Then a black light flashed—like the mirrored glyphs over the Ophanim’s heads—and Martinez’s soul blinked out of existence.
Diago stared at the spot. That wasn’t normal. He wondered if it was because they were in a pocket realm. Perhaps his soul only seemed to disappear because they were so close to the mortal realm. It was plausible.
Guillermo’s soft rumble interrupted Diago’s thoughts. “I would have done that for you.”
“I know. But you would have scared him worse. Help me now. He’s about my size.”
Guillermo joined him. Together, they eased Martinez to the floor and relieved him of his uniform. Diago stripped to his undershirt.
While Diago dressed in Martinez’s shirt and jacket, Guillermo searched the youth’s pockets. Martinez carried nothing but two small bottles of pills. The bright red, white, and blue container looked cheerful enough. Diago glimpsed the word Pervitin in white.
Guillermo frowned. “Do you know what this does?”
He untied his improvised kneepads and shoved the rags under the desk. “It’s a synthetic version of methamphetamine.”
A blank stare.
“Methylamphetamine.”
Still blank.
“It’s a powerful stimulant—an amphetamine that makes America’s Benzedrine look like candy.”
Guillermo opened one of the tubes and spilled the white pills into his palm. “Why would he need so much?”
“I don’t know.” Diago quickly buttoned Martinez’s jacket.
Capping the bottle, Guillermo slipped it and the other one into his pocket. “Quick: salute.”
Diago gave him a closed-fist Republican salute. Fuck.
Guillermo raised his finger. “You’ll only get to make that mistake once. Again.”
Diago gave the fascist salute.
Guillermo nodded. “Don’t forget it.” He tossed Diago the tasseled infantry cap and pointed to his head.
Diago traded hats. “What do you think?”
Guillermo assessed his appearance with a critical eye. “You should do tassels more often. That look works for you.”
Diago shot him a baleful side-eye.
“I’ve seen that face. I don’t think it means you’re happy.”
He shot him the look again, and Guillermo grinned.
Gritting his teeth, Diago said, “Will I pass for Martinez?”
“As long as no one gets too close. Keep to the shadows if you can. You heard him speak. Do you think you can imitate the register of his voice?”
“When one dies, they bring another to replace him.” Diago achieved a reasonable delivery of Martinez’s Aragonese.
“I’m impressed.”
Diago switched his pistol to the new holster, because his weapons were in excellent working order. He wasn’t sure if Private Martinez was as diligent with his gear. They split the rest of the ammunition between them.
Touching his own cap, Diago said, “Ditch your hat. And the kneepads. We need to find you a fascist uniform. Preferably one with a higher rank.”
“I’m sure there are more of Jordi’s nefilim to kill.”
“What about Martinez?” Diago avoided looking at the youth. I shouldn’t feel guilty. But he did.
“Leave him. They probably won’t notice he’s gone until roll call. And stop looking so morose. The boy knew the score the moment he donned that uniform.”
Diago shook his head. “He was just a kid. I doubt he thought he would ever die.”
“He was a kid on the wrong side.” Guillermo tossed his kneepads next to Diago’s and then finished loading the ammo into his pockets. When he was done, he paused, glaring at the door. “He’s also not the first youngster we’ve had to kill, and unless I can find some way to persuade my brother into a truce, he won’t be the last. Let’s move.”
Diago followed him to the door. He doubted he’d ever achieve Guillermo’s and Miquel’s angelic detachment for killing during a war. They were soldiers, bred to fight, with the angels’ martial bearing ingrained in their very songs.
But not me, not anymore.
His incarnations had changed him. And in this one, Miquel taught him empathy in order to save him from self-destruction. Maybe he’d taught him too well.
Diago glanced at Martinez’s face before he shut the door. All he saw in the youth’s death mask was his son, yearning to follow in Miquel’s footsteps. The thought of Rafael entering a war this brutal scared Diago more deeply than Jordi’s combined forces.
Yet it was also all the more reason to give his son a good example to follow. If the others saw mercy as weakness, then so be it.
Adjusting his cap, he stepped forward and led the way along the catwalk. His nerves jumped with every clanking step on the walkway.
Metal wheels and valves jutted along the walls. Accompanying pipes shot upward into shadow
s. Whether the fittings carried liquid or gas, Diago couldn’t readily tell, but the equipment gave them a few recesses for potential cover.
Luck was with them and they made it to a flight of stairs without further incident. On the ground level, alcoves were spaced every few meters along the narrow walkway that ran beside the tracks.
Diago stayed in plain sight while Guillermo flitted from one alcove to the next, hiding in the shadows until Diago gave him the all clear to move again. They’d walked close to ten minutes when the sound of activity slowed their approach.
Diago motioned for Guillermo to wait in one of the recesses. Several meters away the tracks disappeared around a curve.
At the bend the rails branched to the right, away from the walkway, continuing to another platform farther down the line. A freight train waited by the platform. The faint shapes of people moved purposely around the cars. They were too far away for Diago to make out their uniforms or faces, but he had no trouble noting that some of the figures held rifles. From the way they positioned themselves, it was obvious they guarded either the workers or the cargo.
Diago’s sidewalk continued to the left, where a metal door stood propped open. He detected movement on the other side. Slowing his pace, he crept forward and listened. Someone shouted a command. The squeal of metal wheels on concrete set his teeth on edge. Something heavy fell. Curses filled the air, followed by the sound of someone being struck—one, two, three, four blows.
Why don’t they cry out? He walked through the door.
It was a warehouse. Pallets of crates stood at attention in eight neat lines.
Near another door across the room, three boxes lay on the floor next to a handcart. A soldier beat a man in a striped uniform while three other guards watched. At the sixth or seventh blow, the huddled form collapsed, either dead or unconscious. Ten other prisoners, guarded by six more soldiers, stood at attention, obviously forced to watch.
The soldier with the truncheon straightened and glared at the other prisoners. He stabbed his baton at two different men. “You and you, get him the fuck out of here. López, go with them.”
A Nationalist, a permanent leer stamped across his mouth, nodded and followed the prisoners out the door.
“The rest of you, get back to work!”
The prisoners didn’t wait to be told a second time. They righted the crates on the pallet and wheeled them out of sight.
Now that the excitement was over, the rest of the soldiers stood at ease. They held their weapons loosely.
Diago shifted his attention to a nearby pallet. Through the wooden slats, he was able to make out research institute of defense physiology stamped on the cardboard box.
What the hell is defense physiology?
“Martinez! Is that you?”
It was the same guard who’d beaten the prisoner.
Diago whirled, making sure the shadows obscured his rage. Although he refused to give his base nature the satisfaction of enjoying a kill, he’d be damned if he’d mourn the death of a sadist such as this.
The nefil wiped his truncheon on a rag as he strode toward Diago. He wore the stripes of a sergeant major. “Are you fucking lost again?”
“No, sir!” Diago snapped a quick salute.
The sergeant major didn’t bother to return it. “Have you sealed that hut already?”
“There’s a problem, sir.” Diago mimicked Martinez’s accent and added a note of urgency to his voice. Turning his back, he half jogged toward the door.
“Fucking idiot boy.” The sergeant major hesitated, but only for a second, before he followed. “Do we need to sound the alarm?”
“No, but you should see this.” Oh, how I want you to see this. Diago picked up his pace and went through the open door. He quickly ducked around the corner, passing Guillermo’s hiding spot.
“Hold on!” The soldier followed, merely a few paces behind. “Private!”
Guillermo lunged out of the darkness and grabbed the nefil. He slammed him against the wall, spitting in his face. “This is for Carme,” he hissed to the stunned man before he broke his neck.
The dark sound of the nefil’s soul disappeared in a flash and a blink just as Martinez’s had.
Guillermo dragged the body into the recess. “You couldn’t find a taller one?”
“I didn’t want to find this one.” Diago returned to the door and kept watch while Guillermo changed clothes.
Guillermo grumbled, “The sleeves are too short.”
“Roll them up.” Diago glanced over his shoulder.
Guillermo created a sigil, charging it with a quiet note. The glyph formed wavy lines and descended over the corpse, deepening the shadows and hiding it from view. “We’ve got about an hour before that fades.”
“Then we’d better vacate the area.” Diago motioned for Guillermo to join him.
They returned to the warehouse. The other soldiers remained about thirty meters away, blocking the only other exit from the room. They seemed more relaxed with their commanding officer gone. Laughing at some jest, they shared a cigarette and gave the prisoners half their attention.
Guillermo moved toward one of the pallets. “What’s in the crates?” he whispered.
“Items from the Research Institute of Defense Physiology. What do you know about that?”
Guillermo’s scowl deepened. “According to our intelligence, the institute is under the direction of a mortal, Professor Dr. Otto Ranke.”
“I’m familiar with the name. He’s working with a pharmaceutical company in Germany . . . Temmler, I think it is. The Germans are doing drug experimentations on mortal soldiers to enhance their stamina with . . .” His voice trailed off. The Pervitin in Martinez’s pockets suddenly made sense. “Amphetamines. They’re using Pervitin.”
Guillermo scowled and touched his pocket, but he didn’t withdraw the tubes of pills. Instead, he unsheathed the heavy knife he carried. “Keep talking.” He slipped behind a stack of crates.
Diago watched the soldiers and prisoners as he murmured, “The goal is to create a super-soldier, except instead of breeding a better fighter, they’re taking a shortcut with the drugs.”
“Shortcuts,” Guillermo muttered. “You were right. That’s just like my brother.” A loud pop indicated he’d succeeded in prying the lid off one of the crates.
Diago flinched at the noise, but neither prisoners nor guards seemed to notice. The large room was filled with the echoes of movement and hushed conversations among the guards.
Glancing over his shoulder, Diago saw the inside of the crate Guillermo had opened was filled with cardboard boxes.
“They’re like fucking matryoshka,” Guillermo muttered in exasperation, referring to the Russian nesting dolls. Slicing through the tape on the cardboard box, he lifted a smaller unit in a red, white, and blue box. “Goddamn it.”
Pervitin. Diago stared at the hundreds of crates. “Jesus Christ. Do you realize how many pills are here?”
“Enough to supply an army?”
Klaxons suddenly screamed overhead. Emergency lighting sent red waves washing over the area.
Diago’s heart hammered in his chest. He drew his pistol, determined to put a bullet in his brain before he allowed Jordi to orchestrate his death.
Guillermo dropped behind the crate and drew his own gun.
Diago held his breath and listened. No footsteps moved in their direction.
A door on the other side of the room slammed open.
“Move! Move! Move!” shouted an authoritative voice.
Diago risked a peek around the stack of crates that hid them.
An officer pointed at four burly nefilim. “You, you, you, and you, come with me. We’ve got an escapee.” He paused and surveyed the group. “Ortega, where is your commanding officer?”
Ortega gestured at the door behind Diago. “I saw him leave with Martinez a few moments ago, Lieutenant.”
The lieutenant spat. “Shit. The idiot.” Whether the comment was directed at the sergean
t or Martinez, Diago didn’t know or care. “Then you’re in charge, Ortega. Secure the prisoners and report to level three!” The officer ran off with his handpicked squad in tow.
Ortega wasted no time. The officer had barely cleared the door before he began barking at the soldiers. “You heard him! Move!”
Diago waited until the last door slammed. The lights shut off. Sirens continued to blare. Although they were alone, he kept his voice low. “Do you think this is Operation Red Soldier?”
Guillermo shook his head. “Whatever Red Soldier is, it goes into effect in twenty-four hours. This is something different and, judging by the guards’ reactions, unanticipated.” His eyes narrowed as he glared at the rows of crates. “Why would you need that many nefilim to capture one escapee?”
Diago stifled a chill. “Because they’re testing the Pervitin on nefilim, trying to enhance their powers. And it’s working.”
“Exactly. We need Carme’s notebook and to find a way to sabotage this operation.”
“The choruses. If we can shut one of them down . . .”
“Good thinking.” Guillermo adjusted his sleeves and headed for the door. “Let’s get a feel for the layout. We’ll have to make this up as we go along.”
My least favorite kind of plan. Nonetheless, Diago nodded.
The hallway outside the storage facility was deserted. A long ramp followed a natural slope upward. Diago kept close to the wall, watching for doorways or alcoves that might give them cover. They’d gone roughly seventy meters before they reached a junction.
Footsteps approached from an adjacent corridor. Guillermo veered right, walking with his head up and eyes forward, as if he had every right to be here. Diago kept pace with him.
Office doors lined the hall. A concrete floor replaced the natural stone.
They rounded a corner. A group of three soldiers, all privates, jogged toward them from the opposite direction. There was no place to hide.
Diago fell back a step behind Guillermo as dictated by their rank. The trio gave Guillermo a perfunctory salute as they passed, which he returned without slowing his stride.
The corridor widened until it branched into five different directions. Here, they found more soldiers. Two units hurried past them, obviously an armed response to the klaxons. Others carried on as if nothing unusual were happening.