Volk

by David Nickle

  “‘Did you get the letter sent?’ he asked. I nodded yes.

  “‘All right,’ he said, ‘what’s the state of the plane? Can it fly?’

  “‘I don’t see why it wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘There is plenty of fuel.’

  “‘Good,’ he said. ‘You might want to make sure you can fly too. Nothing to drink, right?’

  “We walked around the house, and I asked him what he meant. Were we to escape?

  “‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Depends on how that talk between old Bergstrom and Gottlieb goes.’

  “I asked him what he imagined that conversation might entail. He admitted that he did not know exactly. But when I asked if it might have to do with Orlok . . . he said it might indeed. What—who—is Orlok?

  “‘That’s between Bergstrom and Gottlieb,’ said Jason. ‘How much fuel’s in the plane, you figure?’

  “‘More than enough to make Africa,’ I said, and Jason nodded.

  “‘Then you’ll be able to make Crete,’ he said.

  “The Greek Island? I would think so.” I made a fast calculation as we walked. ‘Yes. More than enough.’

  “‘Good,’ said Jason. ‘That’s where you’re going to want to go.’

  “‘What is in Crete?’ I asked.

  “‘Miss Harper,’ said Jason. ‘You find her, tell her I sent you, she’ll pay you well. Tell her what Desrosiers offered you, tell her I said to better it.’

  “I asked Jason: was he not to be joining me? In answer, he named a villa, asked me to say it back and asked that I remember it, but not say it again.

  “‘That’s where she’ll be,’ he said. ‘If you’re on your own, you’ll need to go there. If it’s us—well, I know the way.’

  “I asked more questions. What happened to all the food that Jason took? Was it feeding a population in the valley? How many? What was the matter under discussion between Gottlieb and Bergstrom? And I asked again: Who was Orlok?

  “‘The food,’ Jason said, ‘got eaten by, yes, people in that valley.’

  “The rest, between Gottlieb and Bergstrom . . . Jason was quite adamant, that it was not my affair. ‘That’s between a doctor and a patient,’ he said.

  “And as for Orlok?

  “‘That’s something else again,’ Jason told me. ‘Orlok’s . . . powerful. I’m pretty sure that Bergstrom and the rest would like to meet him. Gottlieb’s sure. But I don’t think Orlok’s sure he wants to meet them, is the thing.’”

  “You must have guessed,” said Kurtzweiller, “that this Orlok was the man you’d met the night before.”

  Zimmermann smiled tightly. “I described to you my discussion in great detail just now. But that memory was hard-won. I didn’t know what I’d seen then. I suppose that I intuited this might be so. But then . . .”

  “You thought it might’ve been an owl,” said Andrew, nodding. “This is all sounds very familiar, Herr Zimmermann. It took me a long time to put together what I really saw, those years back in Idaho. When I was in the Juke’s sway.”

  “So I understand,” said Zimmermann, glancing at Ruth. “I think that maybe Jason had a similar difficulty, describing the things that he’d seen in the valley. I only had a little time with him before Gerhardt came to summon him upstairs. He was notably unhelpful as regards any details of his time beyond those hills, in that mysterious valley.

  “At first I thought he was being evasive, as I suppose he had every right to be. But as I think of it now, I believe he was embarrassed, and his evasion was not to protect a secret, but to mask his own ignorance, confusion—like a lazy student who arrived unprepared for an examination.”

  “When did you leave?” asked Lewis. “That night?”

  “Oh no. I awaited Jason’s signal, some clue that I should make a run—and for some opportunity. By the end of the day, our little farm became very busy. Word passed round the S.A. men with whom I still consorted, that a contingent of the Hitler-Jugend command would be arriving from Munich by the morning, and would expect to be seen to. I was pressed into service, erecting tents, moving cots and lockers there, as the bunkroom was cleared out to make way for the visitors. This was one of the few times where I met Plaut. You remember Plaut?”

  “The screaming one,” said Kurtzweiller drily. “You mentioned him.”

  “He had been staying in a house in Wallgau. I didn’t see him often on his routine visits. He spent most of his time on the upper floor, off-limits to me.”

  “In the daytime,” Ruth noted.

  “This time, he made certain he was among us. He inspected the kitchen, the common rooms, as would a glowering butler . . . none of it was to his satisfaction. He made it known to Aguillard, but so as to be heard by all, that we were to be hosting a very important delegation of Nazi Party leadership, come to speak to the prisoner Markus Gottlieb and confer on strategy. He made certain to convey that to everyone before stomping upstairs, to speak again with Bergstrom and Gottlieb.

  “The delegation turned out to be important indeed. Kurt Gruber was among them—do you know him? He is the chairman of the Hitler-Jugend—a very, very important official from Munich. I did not recognize him myself. But the S.A. were quite surprised and more than a little afraid. For the first time in my life, I raised my arm and uttered the words ‘Heil Hitler.’ It was made clear to me that it would go badly for me if I did not.

  “He was accompanied by a guard of S.A. men, much younger and fitter than the ones at the farm. They were impressive. I counted twenty of them. When they exited their vehicles, they were met at the front doors to the farmhouse, by Plaut, Bergstrom, and Jason . . . and Markus Gottlieb. I barely recognized those two. They were dressed in S.A. uniforms themselves, scrubbed and sheared. Gottlieb in particular was transformed, his hair shaved to his skull, his beard to his sunken cheeks . . . his slight frame swimming in shirt and trousers that were too large by half. He looked ill, still . . . but there was a mischievousness in his eye, as Gruber and his lieutenants approached them. Neither he nor Jason saluted when the time came, and when Gruber turned to speak to Dr. Bergstrom . . . Gottlieb did a most unusual thing, and shouted a greeting.

  “‘Good morning to you sir!’ as though they were old friends, he and this Nazi politician.

  “Gruber might well have struck him for the insolence—he seemed that sort of German—and one could see his guard readying themselves for a confrontation. But he did not. Gruber removed his gloves, in the meticulous way that an officer does . . . then allowed himself a sharp but indulgent laugh.

  “‘Is this our prisoner, Doctor?’ he asked Bergstrom, and when Bergstrom said yes, Gruber nodded genially toward Gottlieb and replied: ‘Good morrow to you, Herr Gottlieb.’

  “‘It is good to see you again,’ said Gottlieb.

  “‘I am not certain we have met,’ said Gruber.

  “‘It would have been some time ago,’ said Gottlieb. ‘Were you not in Munich in 1923?’

  “‘Ah. I was much younger,’ said Gruber. He leaned in, examining Gottlieb. ‘So would you have been.’

  “‘You have aged better,’ said Gottlieb, smirking broadly.

  “‘I am sorry, Herr Gottlieb, I do not recall.’

  “‘You may remember my friend better.’ Gottlieb leaned nearer to Gruber as he spoke—and as he did, Gruber recoiled. Even from where I stood, I could see the mischief in Gottlieb’s eye had shifted. I would not have let him get closer to me either.

  “‘He remembers you!’ cried Gottlieb.

  “Gruber’s S.A. guard put a stop to any further conversation, stepping deftly between Gruber and Gottlieb. They might well have beaten him then—or at least taken hold of him. But they did not, simply stepping between the two as though separating brawlers at a beer hall. There was a deference toward Gottlieb that was uncanny, or so I thought at the time.”

  “It is odd that they brought Gottlieb out-of-doors at all,” said Kurtzweiller. “He seemed a dangerous sort.”

  “The friend,” said Lewis. “That was obviously Orlok.
”

  “Obviously,” agreed Zimmermann. “That, I recall, did cause me to draw a line between my encounter with the giant in the night, and the ‘friend’ that Gottlieb mentioned. I thought that they might well be the same, in part because of the glee with which Gottlieb spoke of him . . . and because of the flash of fear that showed in not only Gruber but also Plaut, and Bergstrom.

  “The men withdrew indoors, for a meeting that was to last scarcely more than an hour. I attempted to follow, and got as far as the bottom of the stairs before one of Gruber’s men made it clear I should leave. So I returned to the front doors, where the S.A. men from Munich were milling about, and waited with them there. They were not communicative, clearly a class apart from those assigned to the farmhouse—better disciplined, better bred. The men here were deferential, but suspicious of them.

  “I didn’t stay with that crowd very long. I had not seen to the plane since Jason had bade me leave in it, so I took the opportunity to wander in its direction, confirming it was indeed fuelled and fit to fly. Easier with a co-pilot, but I thought I could get it in the air on my own if need be. I even inspected the charts, and drew a course close enough to Crete to hire a boat.

  “By the time I was done, so was Gruber. I could see him from the cockpit, marching along in some hurry back to his car along with those dashing young men of the S.A., who were loading into their own trucks. I waited until they were underway to return, yet when I did, I thought it might have been some trick; it seemed to me that the S.A. men had not left at all. There were as many outside the house as before. Twenty or so young men, gathered alongside the regular farmhouse guard.

  “From a distance, it seemed as though it were the same men. They were wearing the brown-shirted uniform of the S.A. after all, and they were correct in number. As I drew closer, however, I could see they might not be. Those who didn’t wear caps were unkempt, hair grown out, and sometimes bearded too. They didn’t carry themselves the same way—Gruber’s men were disciplined, stood straight and strong, as though they were a proper army. These ones leaned against posts and railings, slouching and smirking. When one of the S.A. men from the farm looked at them too long, they would stand a little straighter, almost defiantly . . . and that man would look away, find a fleck of lint on his shirt, shuffle away. As I drew close, one of the ‘new’ guards caught my eye in a way that seemed a challenge—and hoping to avoid trouble, I raised my hand again in the Nazi salute: ‘Heil Hitler!’ He raised his hand in return, lazily, as though he were mocking me—then said nothing, looking away as though bored.

  “As it was clear no one would challenge me, I slipped indoors.

  “The front hall of the farmhouse was empty. But the place wasn’t quiet. I could hear the sound of intense conversation from the upper floors . . . sounds of someone cooking, or cleaning perhaps, from the kitchen . . . and from the infirmary, nearest me, beyond a door, cracked open . . . laughter. A girl’s laughter.

  “I sidled up closer, and peered in. I could not see the whole room—but there was Gustav, Aguillard’s assistant, seated in a chair with his trousers pulled down below his knee, eyes shut, mouth hanging open in what seemed like a smile. The light from the windows flickered across him—shadows, cast no doubt by the laughing girl, just out of sight. I did not enter the room to see.

  “I retreated to the barracks room that we had converted to a dining hall, thinking perhaps that Gruber would stay for a meal. The long tables there had been set, but only partly, as if the work had been interrupted: a cloth of deep red and some silverware was in place, a few candlesticks. As I stood there, the door at the dining hall’s far end opened, and a girl entered the room. She saw me, froze in place—and for a moment, so did I.

  “We recognized one another from the ridgeline, just two days ago. She was no longer naked—she had found a brown shirt, and wore it like a short dress, a belt clinching it to her waist. She had combed her hair too. Still, it was her. The cuts from her nails still itched. But she didn’t attack again—I took a step toward her, and her eyes widened, and she disappeared into the kitchen. Before I could catch up, I heard the back door open and slam. And when I stepped into the kitchen . . .”

  “There were corpses,” said Ruth, after a moment’s silence.

  “What?”

  “Yes, Dr. Lewis,” said Zimmermann. “Fräulein Harper is right. There were two corpses there. I don’t know who they were. Men of the S.A. I think. There was a great deal of blood. One had been stabbed. . . . I am guessing that the other’s throat had been slashed, the blood pooled around his head on the stones of the floor. I didn’t stay to confirm it, because seeing that girl . . . the carnage . . . the strange crew of doppelganger S.A. men outside . . . What perhaps should have been obvious was clear to me now. The great number of formerly naked . . . children, really, who had been living for months like feral animals in the valley, had come here, along with Gottlieb and whoever this Orlok was . . .

  “And it was time to leave.”

  “So you abandoned Jason?” asked Andrew.

  “In fact I did the opposite. I withdrew through the dining hall, up the stairs, to try and fetch him, bring him along. There was no one to stop me. The door to the infirmary was shut tight as I passed it, as were the front doors. I ran up the stairs and burst in on them: Aguillard, and Bergstrom, Plaut and Gottlieb . . . seated in chairs in front of the great window looking out over the hills . . . Jason, standing and smoking by the fire.

  “Gottlieb had been expounding. ‘His mother was a freakishly strong woman, that is how she lived,’ he said. ‘She bent bars and lifted pianos! No one could beat her!’ He was sitting forward, gesticulating wildly. ‘You were correct, Herr Bergstrom! He is a superman!’”

  “Who was he talking about?”

  “I don’t know for certain, Dr. Waggoner,” said Zimmermann. “One might surmise that he was speaking of the mysterious Orlok. But he stopped abruptly as I entered the room. All of them went quiet, and looked at me.

  “‘Hello, Albert,’ said Jason. He stubbed his cigarette out in a candleholder, and pushed himself away from the mantle.

  “‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Aguillard, and Plaut rose from his chair.

  “‘This is a private conversation,’ Plaut said.

  “I apologized, and turned to Jason. ‘Captain Thorn,’ I said. ‘There is a matter of some urgency to which we must attend.’

  “I caught Jason’s eye as I spoke, and I think he took my meaning well enough.

  “‘All right,’ he said, ‘if you gentlemen—’

  “Plaut’s eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, swelling his chest in the way small men will do to make their presence felt.

  “‘No,’ he said. ‘Herr Thorn will remain here. There is nothing to be seen to. You have overstepped.’

  “Aguillard stepped between us then.

  “‘Go back downstairs,’ he said softly, and took me by the arm, trying to turn me around.

  “I did not let him. I took him firmly by the wrist and pulled his hand from my arm. He let out a little shout—I must have twisted, it must have hurt. But I recalled the corpses downstairs . . . the girl . . . the guard, surrounding the front door like a street gang. If any of you have survived a war, you learn at a point to sense when matters become dire. And so I stepped back, fast, beckoning to Jason to follow.

  “Jason understood it was time to leave. ‘I got to see to this,’ he said to Aguillard, and started across the room. But it was worse than either of us had guessed. Gottlieb stood, uttering . . . I can only describe it as a shriek. Wordless and high, like an animal in terrible distress, or rage. He started across the room to us, his hands held like claws. I reacted with a shoulder that sent him hard into one of the little tables. His thigh hit it with a crack that I am sure was not breaking bone—but he sprawled over it as though it were, tumbling to the floor. Plaut, I believe, shouted for guards. Bergstrom, in his own panic, reached into a drawer, in a fumbling way that I have seen men who are new to combat
do.

  “Jason saw what was happening. He moved very quickly across the room to intersect with Bergstrom as he removed a Luger from the drawer, began to raise it. Jason tackled him before he could get a shot. The gun went off—and Plaut cried out. The bullet had grazed his leg . . . the left, I believe. Jason took the gun from Bergstrom’s hand and stuffed it in his belt, ordering Aguillard to see to Plaut, and Bergstrom to take his seat.”

  “And they did?”

  “They did, Dr. Lewis. Even Gottlieb, on the floor, seemed to calm himself, rolling onto his side and looking to Jason, obsequiously. I was surprised, but Jason took it all in stride. ‘All right,’ he said to me, ‘we need to get going.’

  “We hurried down the stairs and got as far as the front hall before we saw anybody. There, we saw two men—young, thick-bearded, one stripped to the waist, the other wearing a brown S.A. shirt. They greeted Jason as though he were an old friend but I had not seen either of them before.

  “‘Where is Markus?’ demanded one. ‘Upstairs?’

  “Jason told them that was where he was.

  “‘Who shot the gun?’ that one asked, pointing to the Luger in Jason’s belt. ‘You?’

  “Jason said no, and when the other asked if there were more guns up there Jason said he didn’t know. Then the pair disappeared up the stairs.

  “‘They are killing people,’ I said, when we were alone. Jason gave me a puzzled look, as though he did not understand. I told him about the corpses I had found in the kitchen. Did he need to see them? He shook his head no. ‘I believe you,’ said Jason. ‘It adds up.’

  “I demanded to know what he meant, but he wouldn’t say more. And so we set out for the plane—right out the front door, where I had left the mysterious stormtroopers.