Blackbone

by George Simpson

  “I’ll find out,” said Gilman, jumping up and quickly dressing.

  Loring threw off the covers and, naked, reached for her clothes. “We’d better hope that’s not Kirst,” she said.

  Gilman paused. “Why?”

  “Because if he gets killed, the djinn will get out, and then we won’t know where it is.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  Gilman bounded for the door.

  Chapter 24

  As the siren sounded, Bauhopf came out of Hut 7 and stood looking up the slope toward the gate. Spotlights from two towers beamed through the storm and picked out something dark lying in the snow. Soldiers rushed down from the barracks, their movements hampered by swirling snow. Everywhere around him, Bauhopf saw lights snapping on inside the huts, doors opening, men edging out into the freezing night, frightened, curious. Von Lechterhoeven appeared at his shoulder. “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bauhopf. “It sounded like shooting.”

  As the gate was opened, Hopkins came thrashing through it, leading the soldiers down toward the spotlit shape. After them came Gilman.

  Bauhopf glanced at the Krankenhaus. The rear door was open. Cuno was huddled in the entrance with the MP on duty, both looking up the slope. Sensing his chance, Bauhopf plowed across. “Cuno!” he called. “Someone’s been shot! They need you!”

  Cuno glanced at the MP, who eyed him blankly. Cuno shook his head and refused to budge. Germans came out of the huts and grouped near the Krankenhaus to stare at the scene uphill. Bauhopf melted in with them and waited, eyeing Cuno. Von Lechterhoeven joined him and said through his teeth, “What are you doing?”

  “Keep your mouth shut.”

  Steuben emerged from his quarters, stamping hurriedly into his boots and buttoning his coat, shielding his eyes from the storm and sizing up the growing crowd of prisoners. “Stay in the huts!” he called out. They ignored him. He caught sight of Bruckner standing in the doorway he had just come out of, worriedly looking up the hill with Churchill at his side. Steuben was conscious of eyes glancing at him—of anger and resentment.

  Staring up the hill at the black shape surrounded by MPs, he thought, They’d better have an explanation.

  Loosely holding his carbine, Cokenaur stood by the gate in shock as MPs formed an armed ring around the thing in the snow. Hopkins moved to one side and, with his hands on his hips, glared at the Germans below. Gilman circled the body, taking in details. Blood-stained snow, sprawling limbs, bared teeth, cheeks drawn back in an impossibly contorted grimace, the tongue lolling out one side of the mouth. He examined the entry wound that had left a meaty hole between the eyes.

  Vinge was stone-dead.

  Gilman got up and went to Cokenaur. “What happened?”

  “I—I shot him, sir.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hopkins turned, his mouth opening to vent surprise. Gilman silenced him with a look. To Cokenaur he said, “Why?”

  “I thought he was a—a wolf, sir.”

  “A wolf?”

  “He came at me, sir. In—in—in the snow and the wind and everything, he looked like a wolf, sir. He was big and black and he had teeth like—” He made a face to demonstrate. The way his lips drew back and his teeth parted, he looked almost like the death mask on Vinge. Wolf-like.

  “It moved like a wolf, sir. I mean, I couldn’t see all that well, but goddamnit, sir, I can tell a wolf from a man and that was a goddamned wolf!”

  “Take it easy, Cokenaur.”

  “I swear I didn’t know it was Vinge, sir!” Cokenaur’s eyes were wild. He was crushing a pack of cigarettes in his free hand. “It was a wolf! I shot a wolf!” Every MP within range heard him.

  Gilman gently relieved him of the carbine and nodded to Hopkins, who came over with a scowl on his face. “Have someone get him up to Borden and sedate him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gilman looked over at Vinge’s body and felt himself begin to shake with helpless rage. Now he understood Hopkins a little better. That feeling of powerlessness in the face of the unknown. The djinn. Somehow, Loring Holloway’s demon was responsible for this. Cokenaur was no fool. Even in a storm, how could he mistake a khaki-wrapped human being for a wolf? No. Cokenaur had been made to believe that what he saw was a wolf. Just like the djinn made me believe I was seeing Window Hill the other night.

  The wind bit into the back of his neck but it was no colder than the chill of fear gripping his body. She was right—deep in his logic-obsessed brain, he knew she was right.

  Kirst.

  Gilman whipped around and detailed two MPs to double-time down to the German infirmary to check on Kirst. Then he gazed downhill at the Germans. Walking away from Vinge’s body so he could be seen better, Gilman shouted through the storm, “Major Steuben!”

  Blackness swirled into the crawl space beneath the Krankenhaus and became a thick, shadowy cloud pulsing on the cold ground. Out of the wind and snow, the nightform was able to relax and let the waves of new energy suffuse its being. With its increased power, dispatching the men in the tunnel had been easy. Most of the djinn’s ancient talents were fully effective now: shape-shifting, sound mimicry, molecular interference, commanding the elements...

  But now fear would take over, and-fear would bring more victims. Before this night was through, it would devour them all.

  As Steuben started up the slope, Bruckner forced Churchill back inside the hut with his boot then came out, hurrying after Steuben. “Walter,” he called.

  Steuben waited for him to catch up, then they continued together, heading toward the Americans. “God only knows who’s been killed now.” He glanced back at the milling men. “Or how many more will die refusing to go back to their beds. We’re in for it now, Hans. Any idea who it is up there?”

  “It could be Mueller.”

  “What?”

  “Mueller was going out tonight, Walter.”

  “What do you mean, out?”

  “The mine shaft. He found a hole. He was going out tonight with Dortmunder and Hoffman.”

  Steuben was silent a moment. “Are any of them still here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’d better find out—quickly!” Steuben swore. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “Your opposition was a matter of record. The men were determined.”

  A moment later they were both staring down at Vinge’s body, Bruckner confused and Steuben relieved. Relieved that it was not Mueller or Dortmunder or Hoffman, that this time it was an American and not a German. Relieved because this death punctured forever Bruckner’s conspiracy-to-kill-Germans theory and paved the way for the prisoners to be told the truth about Kirst.

  Steuben glanced at Gilman. “What happened?”

  Gilman had to shout over the roar of the storm. “He was mistaken for a wolf and shot by one of our own sentries.”

  Steuben’s lips parted in surprise. He looked down and studied how the body lay, the distance to the gate, visibility. “Is that possible?” he asked. Gilman didn’t answer.

  Bruckner tugged at Steuben’s sleeve, wanting to know what had been said. Steuben translated for him, and he too looked puzzled. To Gilman, Steuben said, “You think the woman is right about Kirst?”

  “Maybe,” said Gilman.

  The MPs returned from the Krankenhaus and reported to Gilman that Kirst was still out like a light. “Hasn’t been awake the whole time, sir. Hasn’t even been to the can.”

  Steuben wasn’t paying attention. His mind was running back over the things Loring Holloway had said earlier today, about people trapped in a city twenty-five hundred years ago, plagued by a demon who murdered them in dozens of different ways—”by strangulation, by fire, chased by imaginary beasts, beneath collapsing buildings—”

  Mueller. Mueller in the mine shaft. Sergeant Vinge there on the ground, shot because he was mistaken for a wolf. Gebhard, the submariner, drowned in the shower hut. Eckmann murders Sch
liebert because he thinks Schliebert is making love to his wife. Paranoia and fear. What was Vinge running from? Kirst? No, Kirst was asleep in the Krankenhaus. But the djinn had gotten out. And now it was after—

  “Mueller,” Steuben said.

  Bruckner’s eyes widened.

  “What’s that?” Gilman said.

  “Mueller. He’s trying to escape.”

  Bruckner lunged toward him, horrified.

  “He’s in the mine shaft with Dortmunder and Hoffman!”

  Gilman whirled. “Hopkins!”

  Scattering the Germans in their path, Gilman and Hopkins led a squad of armed MPs past Hut 10. Steuben and Bruckner hurried along behind them, Bruckner’s face working with anger, Steuben frightened and concerned. They climbed the slope and found what Vinge had seen: a gray sleeve and part of a blue blanket protruding from a small hole. Gilman cleared snow from around the sleeve, revealing a bloody, frozen hand.

  “Oh, shit. Another one,” said Hopkins.

  Ignoring him, Gilman ordered the MPs to use the butts of their weapons to dig the body out. They worked as fast as they could, hampered by snow and dirt crumbling around the body as they struggled to free it. Finally, they had the head and shoulders clear. Two MPs grabbed the arms and jerked. Mueller emerged like a newborn child, his head dangling oddly as they lowered him to the snow. Examining him, Gilman immediately found the gash at the base of his neck where his spinal cord had been severed.

  Bruckner stared at Mueller and shook; tears froze on his cheeks.

  “There were two more!” Steuben called out against the wind. “Dortmunder and Hoffman!”

  While a couple of MPs carried Mueller’s body down the slope, two more went to the Krankenhaus for a stretcher. The others jammed their weapons into the ground to widen the hole. When there was enough room to crawl through, Gilman took a flashlight and wriggled in.

  Inside, the ground was dry and cold. He shoved piles of dirt and rock aside and played the light around until he spotted Hoffman’s shoes sticking out of the cave-in. The rest of the body was buried. Gilman withdrew.

  “One of them’s dead for sure,” he told Steuben. “The other one—probably.”

  Steuben let snow collect on his face without brushing it off. He felt an overwhelming surge of sadness. It was all slipping out of his control. Morale was gone, courage was gone, men were dying. Soon they would all be dead. These deaths were only portents. The worst was yet to come. He was on the verge of the final battle, and he knew there would be no survivors. Why should a demon give quarter to anyone? When he met Gilman’s gaze, they were both thinking the same thing. Steuben voiced it. “Kirst,” he said.

  “Kirst,” Gilman agreed flatly.

  Bauhopf watched the two MPs barge in the back door of the Krankenhaus and shout something to the MPs inside. Then they charged through to the main ward, leaving the door wide open. Most of the other prisoners who had come out of their huts were preoccupied watching the MPs up on the back slope. Bauhopf stood halfway between the Krankenhaus and the nearest hut and stared at that open door. He glanced up the hill to the gate and saw more MPs rolling the American sergeant’s body onto a stretcher. He saw the American woman at the gate, watching them and peering through the storm to the shifting lights at the back of the camp.

  He waded through the snow and approached the open door. Peering inside, he could see that the rearmost cubicles were dark. Down the corridor in the main ward, the two MPs were selecting a stretcher. Kirst. Where was Kirst? With the light on in the front and the MPs making all that noise, he would have to be awake now. Unless he was in the back.

  It’s worth a try.

  He waded a few steps closer and was at the door looking in. It was dark in the rear cubicle. He could see the edge of a cot but couldn’t tell if there was anyone on it. There was an empty chair by the wall and, standing against it, a carbine with fixed bayonet.

  Bauhopf stared at the bayonet, a plan instantly forming in his mind. Beads of sweat froze on his upper lip. Keeping his eye on the men m the ward, he ascended the steps cautiously, trying to appear merely curious.

  The two MPs in front had their stretcher and were headed out the front door. Nobody was looking in Bauhopf’s direction. He threw a glance to his right. Only von Lechterhoeven, standing ten yards away in the snow, was watching him, aghast. On his left, up the slope, the MPs were carting the sergeant’s body past the woman, who tried to get through the gate. A guard held her back.

  Bauhopf entered the Krankenhaus, stepped quickly into the shadows, and peered into the darkness. Kirst was asleep on the cot. The MPs in the main ward had let the stretcher-bearers out and had shut the door after them. Now they were strolling back this way and talking among themselves. Bauhopf slipped past the cot and flattened himself against the wall. He grabbed the carbine and hurriedly worked the bayonet free, glancing once at Kirst’s sleeping face and feverishly promising to put him to sleep forever—

  Boots banged on the steps. Von Lechterhoeven filled the doorway and hissed a warning: “Hopkins!”

  Bauhopf ignored him and finished detaching the bayonet.

  “Hey!”

  Von Lechterhoeven looked up. MPs were rushing at him from the main ward. He leaped back and jumped off the steps, pausing to glance back, seeing Bauhopf huddled against the wall with the bayonet—

  He collided with Hopkins, who shoved him aside, looked once at his terrified face, then bounded toward the open door. Von Lechterhoeven glanced around and saw Gilman leading the rest of the MPs back with Steuben.

  In the cubicle, Bauhopf waited, counting heartbeats. Two MPs flew past him. The first one shot out the door and crashed into Hopkins. The second one whipped around to check Kirst—and caught the carbine butt on his chin. As he went down hard, Bauhopf dropped the carbine and, clutching the knife, moved to the bed.

  Disentangling himself from the MP, Hopkins ctirsed him and flung him into the snow, then bounded up the steps and flicked on the light. Bauhopf was bent over Kirst with a knife in his hand. “What the fuck are you doing?!” Hopkins yelled.

  Bauhopf stopped with the knife poised. Hopkins clawed for his .45 then stared at Kirst. Hie look of shock on his face drew Bauhopf s attention. He too looked down and froze at what he saw.

  Kirst lay on the cot, most of his body covered by a blanket. His mouth was open, his eyes closed. Unseen before Hopkins had switched on the light, a thick cloud of black smoke was rolling up the bed, coming in like the tide, crossing Kirst’s chest and approaching his mouth—

  Bauhopf yelled. The knife shook in his hand. Kirst’s eyes flashed open. For the first time in twenty-four hours, Kirst was aware. He glimpsed Bauhopf’s horror-stricken face and the knife in his hand then he saw the blackness rear up above his chest and descend on his mouth. His scream was cut off as the nightform disappeared down his throat.

  Bauhopf gave a loud grunt then swung the knife down in a wide arc and sliced open Kirst’s throat. Instinctively, Hopkins jerked out his .45. As blood spurted from Kirst’s wound, Hopkins’ gun spat flame. The bullet hit Bauhopf in the right temple. He was slammed back against the wall, then he sank to the floor, still clutching the knife.

  Kirst sat bolt upright, his wild eyes connecting with Hopkins, who sprang back in shock and watched him vault off the cot, hands flying to his throat, trying to stop the jetting blood. Kirst swooped around the cubicle like a trapped bird, plunging, gagging, fluttering, retching. An MP coming in from the ward ran right into his fist and dropped like a stone. Cuno came in after him. Kirst slammed him to the floor.

  As Kirst’s body was gripped by a series of violent, spasmodic convulsions, Hopkins shakily leveled his .45 but couldn’t bring himself to shoot: he was so fascinated by the sight of this dead man insanely thrashing about in front of him.

  Kirst crashed against the medicine cabinet and froze as he saw his reflection in the mirror.

  Hopkins saw it too. So did Cuno, getting up from the floor. It wasn’t Kirst’s face. It was a twisted parody o
f human features. It had a wolfish snout with large, curved canine incisors, thick lips fixed in a permanent snarl, deeply hooded and burning eyes, quivering, pointed ears—the entire head was encased in a leathery reptilian skin covered with mottled eruptions. A glistening forked tongue flecked with blood darted from between the lips. It was the face of the djinn.

  Cuno turned and vomited on the floor. Hopkins raised the .45, but Kirst lashed out and struck the weapon from his hand. Hopkins shrank into a corner and cowered, and Kirst bolted to the door, shouldering the jamb hard enough to splinter the wood. Then he sprang off into the storm with an inhuman howl, one hand clutching his split-open throat.

  Hopkins stumbled down the steps and fell into the snow. Gilman arrived with Steuben and the rest of the MPs and, dumbfounded, they watched Kirst’s fleeing figure with its head rocking back as if on a hinge.

  Hopkins was first to gather his wits. He jumped up and snatched a tommy gun from the nearest MP. He fired a warning burst over Kirst’s head.

  Gilman reached out to stop him, but Hopkins lunged forward and bounded through the snow after Kirst. “Don’t shoot!” Gilman yelled, charging after him with Steuben following.

  At the gate, Loring and the MPs on guard heard the warning burst and turned to see Kirst running toward them, holding his throat and screaming and roaring like a pack of wild animals.

  Loring shouted at the men behind her, “Shut the gate! Don’t let him out!”

  They did it quickly, leaving Loring inside with two MPs readying weapons. Kirst was hit with a spotlight from the nearest tower.

  Hopkins floundered up the slope, yelling at Kirst to halt. Kirst bounded past the MPs and bolted for the fence. He sprang four feet off the ground and grabbed the barbed wire with both hands. His head flopped back. Loring saw the gaping throat wound and the dead eyes. Instinctively she backed away. The MPs stared in disbelief.