Personnel: Dossier Feldgrau

by Tyler Hanson

  Personnel

  Dossier Feldgrau

  Book 1 of The Faction

  By Tyler Hanson

  Book I of The Faction

  Personnel: Dossier Class Feldgrau by Tyler Hanson

  https://jointhefaction.wordpress.com/

  Twitter: @VitameatavegamN

  Cover Artist: Kim Tavenor

  Twitter: @kimmytavs

  Editor: C. D. Tavenor

  Twitter: @tavenorcd

  Published by Two Doctors Media Collaborative LLC

  www.twodoctorsmedia.com

  © 2019 Tyler Hanson

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-7338361-5-9 (paperback)

  Other Works from

  Two Doctors Media Collaborative

  The Chronicles of Theren

  Volume I

  First of Their Kind (Book I)

  Their Greatest Game (Books II and III)

  The Faction

  Dossier Feldgrau

  Personnel

  Conscription

  The Redacted Files

  Alligator Season

  The Compendium

  Legacy of Light

  Enemies of Light

  Battery’s Report

  01.01: “Discovery”

  01.02: “Descent”

  01.03: “Collapse”

  Aquifer’s Report

  01.04: “Presentation”

  01.05: “Massacre”

  01.06: “Escape”

  01.07: “Flight”

  Shadow’s Report

  01.08: “Hunt”

  01.09: “Brood”

  Bomber’s Report

  01.10: “Ambush”

  01.11: “Rescue”

  Proxy’s Report

  01.12: “Suspicion”

  01.13: “Investigation”

  01.14: “Infiltration”

  01.15: “Defense”

  Shadow’s Report: 1.16: “Conscription”

  A Sneak peek inside Conscription: Dossier Feldgrau

  About the Author

  DOSSIER FELDGRAU

  Folder 1: Personnel

  Battery’s Report

  01.01: “Discovery”

  Mississippi, United States

  June 21, 1989-A

  The warm summer air filled the train yard, providing a blanket of comfort for those willing to accept nature’s embrace. For those who resisted, like the small girl crying on the edge of a detached caboose, it was nothing more than an uncomfortable, smothering heat. Her soft sobs echoed through the otherwise silent yard, bouncing between trains and buildings.

  The girl reached up and massaged her face, where a dark purple bruise had swollen around her brown eyes. She sniffled, rubbing her small, button nose. After a moment she took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and slid from the caboose, her feet crunching gravel. The impact of her landing sent her curly brown hair splaying out in every direction like a palm tree. Her brow furrowed and she took a determined step forward, emitting another crunch.

  Who cares that her parents don’t share the same color, or go to church on Sunday?

  Crunch.

  Why does it matter if her darker skin stands out in the sea of white faces at school?

  Crunch.

  How’s she supposed to deal with the way people treat her if they don’t look past her outsides?

  Crunch.

  The girl stopped, inhaling deeply.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  The girl glanced over her shoulder to find the origin of the mirrored sounds. What she saw was a pale, gangly, red-haired boy approaching her. His fair skin sizzled in the heat, and his bright green eyes glimmered as they reflected the sun’s rays. The boy always told her that his eyes were like ginger ale, while hers were like root beer.

  He gave a shy half-wave and walked up to her.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  His voice, heavy with Southern twang, was the first to fill the empty air.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “Ar’ya okay?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, but I will be.”

  “I heard about what the other ones did.” He frowned. “Someone should’ve stepped in—”

  The girl squeezed him tight, pushing the air from his lungs and halting his words. For her size, she was surprisingly strong, making today’s loss against the other students that much more embittering. Still holding on, she whispered to him.

  “It’s okay. You know I’m stronger than them bullies in town. I’m better ‘cause I know what’s important. It’s not about our looks or our folks.” Brown eyes angled up toward his face. “It’s about loving the people we have and doing what we can to live a good life.”

  He smiled at her. “I couldn’t’ve said it better myself.”

  The day began to darken, shifting from a bright yellow to a dull grey. The girl looked up to see clouds moving to block out the sun, then peered across the tracks of the train yard to a shape in the distance. She squinted, remembering why she was even here.

  “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  New York, United States

  September 9, 2001-B

  Water lapped against the pier, half-hearted in its tidal force; the loudness of the wet slaps was odd, considering how little effort the Hudson River seemed to exert. Birds cawed overhead, seeking food, shelter, and mates. The sun shone with its natural confidence, without a cloud in sight.

  This would be a great spot to relax today, Zen thought. Well, if it weren’t for him.

  The bloated corpse of a pale, balding, middle-aged man lay on the edge of the pier. His eyes bulged from his skull, and it appeared that a fish had already begun to nibble on the edge of his ear before the body was scooped from the river. He was mostly covered in plastic by now, as CSI had come and gone earlier today.

  Or later yesterday, depending on your curfew.

  “What happened here?” she asked, turning to her fellow detective.

  Phil was a short, plump, middle-aged Hispanic man with leathery skin, greasy black hair and a bushy mustache. He was quiet, as usual, but he had an aura of wisdom surrounding his silence. He might appear to others as gruff or unapproachable, but he remained an amicable, professional partner. Zen held a great deal of respect for his tenure and experience.

  Phil surveyed the scene before him, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and grumbled in response. “Some kids found him bumping against the edge of the pier in the water a few hours after midnight. Maybe around two or three? They claim he was already like this.” He gestured at the man, naked on the ground. “So, if the killer took the time to strip him and take his IDs, we can assume that there is something important about his identity, or about the evidence left behind on his body.”

  He sighed, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. He looked up at Zen. “Cause of death appears to be asphyxiation. That’s what CSI is saying. They’ll perform a more in-depth analysis back at the lab. That’ll be a while, though. Let’s split up and check nearby residences. Maybe someone around here saw something than can expedite catching a killer.”

  Zen nodded in agreement and stuck a thumb out behind her. “There’s a skate park nearby. I’ll start there.”

  The
two tired detectives trekked off, their parting figures outlined by dawn’s golden-orange glow.

  Mississippi, United States

  June 21, 1989-A

  The hairs on the girl’s arm rose as a chilling wind cut through the summer heat, leaving her with lasting goosebumps. There was so much energy here. She loved it.

  The two children trotted up the grassy hill before them, letting their hands sway and touch occasionally as they moved side-by-side. They ascended to the top and stopped to admire the large tree now filling their view. It was a Nuttall oak, the girl had learned through research, and what made it so interesting was its location. These oaks were more common in the wetter River Valley, and it was rare for one to grow so far from a significant water source. It was unique to the area; something that stood out.

  Something she identified with.

  A sigh sounded beside her. She glanced over to see the boy’s eyes close, a slight smile on his face as he enjoyed the windier weather. She grabbed his hand and squeezed, and he opened his eyes in time to see her point at the oak.

  “I always come when I’m sad or mad. It’s a place for me to . . . center myself.” She mimicked her pa’s voice. “But I love it ‘cause I get to see the storms up-close.”

  She was referring to the many thunderstorms and tornadoes which frequented their town. In the heart of the Dixie Belt, storms were just a fact of life for residents.

  “I want you to be here with me today,” she added. “This is a special tree for me, an’ I want to share it with you.”

  She uttered her words at the perfect time. Dark clouds formed overhead, and the low rumble of thunder chased intermittent flashes of blue light. The pair scrambled to the base of the tree and climbed the trunk, invigorated by the power and the chaos swirling around them. They were young and spry, and it took little time or effort to reach the highest branches of the sturdy oak. The boy and the girl rested on a thick branch, leaning against each other, their legs swinging in the air as the heavy storm clouds approached.

  New York, United States

  September 9, 2001-B

  Nothing frustrated Zen the police officer more than trying to reason with teenagers; this only proved truer in low-income areas of the city. A small handful of kids were at the skate park this early in the morning, and every single brat was sarcastic and uncooperative. She’d reached her capacity for snark by the time she wrote down their statements. It wasn’t until she wandered away from the park to a nearby apartment building that she reached a reprieve.

  At the building, the grass outside was dying, the grounds littered with broken bottles and discarded clothing. A group of men in jeans and dark hoodies smoked in lawn chairs outside the apartment entrance, but they scattered when they saw Zen approaching. She entered and made her door-to-door rounds.

  “Yeah, you want Trevor,” mumbled a middle-aged man near the building’s entrance. “He’s always got these annoying hood rats coming over and making a mess.”

  “My daughter saw him at her school, hustling some kind of drugs!” gossiped a young mother down the hall, a few minutes later.

  An elderly lady who said she “most times goes by ‘Mrs. Jackson,’ but ‘Mary’ is just fine for police detectives” confided the most interesting memories with Zen.

  “My neighbor, he was at it again last night. I heard him yelling through the walls. There was another man’s voice, deeper, yelling back. It was such a loud commotion, Detective! I think they were destroying his furniture. I was getting scared and had walked out onto my porch, ready to call nine-one-one. That’s when I saw him. The other man, he was tall with a heavy coat, and he had a knit cap hiding a lot of his face. He stormed out of the apartment and walked around the building. Not but a moment after, Trevor left, too, carrying a long, dark shape over his shoulder. I was scared and went back into my apartment. The last thing I saw was my neighbor walking toward the river. I had never seen the other man before.”

  Mary leaned away from her apartment doorway, her face telegraphing some relief for the opportunity to share her story. Zen leaned closer to hear her next words, and she realized that the woman was in tears, her bottom lip trembling. “Things are so different now; so much meaner. I can’t tend my window garden anymore. I’m afraid to walk by the river at night. I just want my neighborhood to go back to the way it used to be. Can you help me?”

  Zen reached out and covered Mary with a compassionate embrace. The detective was “awful strong for her size,” as her momma would say, but she managed to avoid leaving her witness with any lasting discomfort. After a moment, they separated, and Zen turned toward the hallway.

  Zen said, “I’ll do my best, Mary.”

  She walked away, passing under the dirt-covered fluorescent ceiling lights, approaching Trevor’s apartment.

  “NYPD!” She punctuated her announcement with a few sharp raps against his wooden door.

  From within the apartment came a loud crash and the sounds of something scurrying across wooden floorboards. A muffled “Fuck!” rang out.

  Zen sighed. “Sir, I just have a few questions for you. That’s all.”

  She heard furniture slamming and clattering, but when Zen heard the distinct clack-clack of a racked pistol slide, she stiffened, the small hairs lifting themselves from the nape of her neck. Zen reached for the sidearm on her hip, but reconsidered. She needed this man’s information more than he needed to die. She could handle herself without lethal force, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until she could share the fate of the corpse at the pier with its family.

  Zen slid her hand from the holster of her gun to the pocket behind it, where her Taser rested.

  No. You don’t need that, either.

  She took two steps back and struck out with her leg. Her heel slammed against the wooden door with enough force to splinter the edges away from the frame. She repositioned to finish her personal demolition project, but a loud crack from within the apartment interrupted her. Sprays of wood brushed against Zen’s face as a small hole appeared in the door, punctuating the bullet that had traveled through it. She rolled past the doorframe and looked behind her, relieved the bullet had only penetrated the nearby drywall. At times like this, she could never trust her body to tell her if she was injured.

  Zen returned to the door. She lowered her body, shifting on the ground into a low, pouncing position, her right leg splayed behind her while her left foot and both hands were planted near her face, resembling an Olympic runner at the starting line. Not allowing a moment’s hesitation, she sprinted forward with every ounce of force available. The wooden door cried in protest as Zen’s shoulder made firm contact. With a short-lived, inanimate woe, it pushed away from the frame and propelled a few feet into the apartment, reaching its final resting place.

  The detective planted one foot on the center of the fallen barrier and surveyed the room. It was filled with haze and smoke, evidence of the constant exposure to cigarettes and, Zen assumed, a variety of other airborne substances. The room itself was in disarray. Clothes, magazines, and power tools littered the floor. An old beige couch at the center of the room pointed toward a small grey television. In front of the couch was a brown coffee table supporting a glass surface and covered in a collage of drug paraphernalia, from silver razors to glass pipes to questionably opaque bags and jars. At first glance, there was no evidence of a violent crime, but the observation did little to deter Zen’s suspicions.

  More important was the one missing detail: The resident himself. Zen moved into the room, maintaining a balance between speed and silence, sticking close to the walls to avoid an ambush. She leaned into the kitchen and saw an open window to the grass-covered field outside. Curtains blew on either side from the slight breeze, and framed, in the center of the window, the shrinking figure of a man running toward the skate park.

  Zen furrowed her brow and hurled herself into the kitchen, not hesitating for a moment to take a leaping step onto the counter. In a single, deft movem
ent, she grasped the top of the window frame and used her momentum to swing her body outside. The rocking motion sent her legs above her head for just a moment as she hung in the air. Not one to be bested by physics, Zen shifted her weight so that she dropped to the ground in an arcing motion, landing feet-first onto the grass. Steadying herself, Zen reached for the Taser again.

  No, Zen. You don’t need it. Believe in yourself.

  She sprinted forward, taking long, graceful strides.

  The man ahead of her had a shaved head and pale skin, and he wore a white t-shirt with dark green cargo pants. The sun glinted off the metal pistol still in his hand. He was muscular, but awkward, and he seemed already a little winded from the minimal exercise. The man glanced over his shoulder as he lumbered into the skate park, and his eyes widened when he realized that Zen was no more than a dozen yards away.

  Her quarry entered the concrete jungle and pushed through the still loitering teenagers. His body, and then his head, dropped below sight as he fell into the nearest bowl ramp; whether by intent or by accident, Zen couldn’t be sure.

  Zen accelerated as she approached the lip of the ramp. She rocketed over the edge and found herself airborne, the wind rushing through her splayed, curly hair and blowing past her ears. The detective surveyed the scene below her; the man had reached the far side of the bowl ramp and was beginning to climb out.

  She landed with a dense thud about halfway into the depressed skating area, and the man—most likely Trevor—spun around in surprise. He raised his pistol, but she continued her dash, and he was only able to fire two wide shots before she was upon him. Zen lowered her body to strike him with her shoulder, and the force of the collision knocked him off his feet and into the wall of the ramp behind him.

  His gun clattered to the ground as he slumped over in pain, and Zen kicked it away. She stood over her would-be attacker, surveying him for the briefest of moments. Satisfied that he was no longer a threat, she gripped his collarbone in one hand and shoulder in the other, lifting him to his feet. With one solid push, his back struck the wall again.