Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Ignoring the sharp barbs, the djinn forced Kirst to climb the fence. The flesh was torn from his hands. His legs kicked wildly, trying to dig into the links for footholds. He was hit with a second spot. Everybody was shouting now.

  Hopkins reached the base of the fence and positioned himself directly beneath Kirst.

  Realizing what he was going to do, Loring yelled, “No!” and charged toward him.

  As Kirst reached the top, Hopkins raised his tommy gun and fired one long burst. Bullets tore into Kirst’s back. Blood spurted. His body stiffened at the top of the fence. Loring stopped and stared up at him, horrified.

  Gilman, Steuben, and the others arrived in time to see the spotlights converge on Kirst’s body, limp and hanging from the topmost strands of barbed wire, gently twisting in the wind. Kirst’s head hung by gristle and bone, lying all the way back between his shoulder blades.

  From the gaping slit in his throat, illuminated by the spotlights, a thick cloud of black smoke poured out of the body. It flowed against the fence and recoiled with an echoing howl of rage. Then it appeared to be caught on the wind and whipped away into the camp. It disappeared into the storm.

  Gilman, Loring, mid Steuben looked at each other.

  Chapter 25

  As the fence swayed from the impact of Hopkins’ gunfire, feathery clots of snow broke off the top and blew about their faces. Around them a trackless ocean of white continued to draw down a curtain of swirling flakes from the sky.

  Gilman watched the trail of blackness vanish among the huts. The Germans gathering at the bottom of the slope were unaware of it as it rushed over their heads.

  “Is it gone?” Gilman asked Loring.

  “I doubt it.” She looked up at Kirst’s body. “Killing him drove it out, but it couldn’t get past the fence because of the way the camp is shaped—with its five sides. It’s trapped in here, and the only way it will ever get out is inside a new host.”

  The MPs exchanged nervous glances. They didn’t like what they had seen. They didn’t like the idea that Kirst had run around for several minutes with his head nearly severed from his body. They didn’t like the gory, gaping smile where his neck had been, or his cold dead eyes.

  Hopkins stood very still, clutching the tommy gun tightly to his body, trying to make sense of what he had seen. Cuno appeared behind him, his eyes darting toward Kirst as he described to Steuben what had happened in Kirst’s cubicle and what he and Hopkins had seen in the mirror.

  As Steuben translated, Hopkins kicked snow with his boot, muttering to himself.

  Gilman turned to Hopkins and, indicating Cuno, said, “Is he telling the truth? Did you kill one of the Germans?”

  Hopkins stopped kicking snow. “Bauhopf. He took a knife to Kirst, sir—slashed his throat. So I shot him. But then—” Glancing up at Kirst, he struggled with the memory. “Kirst got up, sir, and he was holding his throat and kind of crashing about, and then he stopped in front of the mirror, and instead of his face we saw this... this thing...” His eyes traveled back up to Kirst and stayed rooted to the body while Cuno gave a clinical description of the face of the djinn. Steuben provided an artless translation. The MPs listened, liking all of this even less than what they had witnessed.

  Gilman turned and slogged through the snow, down the fence line, away from the MPs. Steuben, Bruckner, Cuno, Loring, and Hopkins joined him, huddled against the storm.

  “Look, it’s vital now that we all know what we’re up against, because its purpose—according to Miss Holloway—is helped by keeping us in the dark. So the lid is off. Major Steuben, you will please inform your men—and Hopkins, you’ll pass the word to the MPs.”

  “What word?”

  Gilman drew a breath. “What’s been going on around here—the killing—is due to something that was living inside Kirst.”

  Hopkins stared at him.

  “It’s sort of a parasite,” said Loring, aiming for a credible description. “In point of fact, a demon. It’s called a djinn.”

  “Hopkins, that’s d-j-i-n-n,” Gilman added. “It’s not in any field manual, so there’s no regulation procedure for dealing with it, other than initiative. That black cloud we all just saw leaving Kirst’s body? That was it.”

  Hopkins’ expression became a halfhearted smirk.

  “You’ll have to force yourself to believe it,” said Gilman, “so you can convince the others.”

  “Me?”

  “It killed Gebhard in the shower hut. It forced Eckmann to kill Schliebert. It even made Eckmann hang himself.”

  “Why?”

  “It feeds off the death of its victims,” said Loring, “whether it does the killing itself or just causes them to die.”

  “So far tonight, it’s killed Sergeant Vinge and the three men in that mine shaft. And even though you pulled the trigger, the djinn was responsible for Bauhopf.” Gilman glanced back at the body on the fence. “As well as Kirst.”

  “What are you giving me?”

  “Hopkins, you saw its face in the mirror. You and Cuno.”

  “I saw some trick!”

  “The mirror...” Loring was momentarily lost in thought, then she brightened. “That’s why they saw it! That’s what the silver is for—it’ll show us where the djinn is!” She tugged on the chain at her neck and pulled out the silver talisman Yazir had given her. “No matter what shape or substance it takes on or where it hides, we can find it by catching its reflection in silver. We need mirrors!”

  “Which we may be a little short of,” Gilman said.

  “Look, the more it kills, the stronger it gets. It’s going to keep killing. But from now on, it’s vulnerable. It has no place to hide. We’ve got to do something while it’s deprived of a host—and before it finds a new one! At least when it was inside Kirst, we knew where it was! Now it could take any one of us—anybody inside this compound! And if it does, we won’t know who!”

  She fell silent. Snow blew around them. They glanced at the MPs waiting beneath Kirst’s body, at the Germans still emerging from the huts, disregarding the storm and forming a growing mob.

  “How is it going to get a new host?” Gilman asked.

  Loring was thoughtful a moment. “It has to be ingested. The sorcerer in Ur-Tawaq fed it to his assistant. Kirst apparently drank it. It will disguise itself as something edible. It could become food, drink, cigarette smoke...” She looked at Gilman. They both stared at the mob of Germans down the hill.

  “Well, that does it,” said Gilman. “We’ve got to get everybody out of here—right now.”

  “Wait a minute!” Hopkins snapped. “Those men are prisoners. They’re not getting out of here!”

  “Hopkins—”

  Hopkins brandished his tommy gun. “Uh-uh, Major. You can believe all that hocus-pocus if you want to, but not me. What do you think you’re dealing with here? They’re Germans! They’re going to escape any way they can! This may be the best act I’ve ever seen, but it stops right here!” He slammed the bolt action back and steadied the weapon.

  Steuben stepped forward. “Major Gilman, I give you my word my men won’t attempt to escape—”

  “What about the three in the mine shaft?” interrupted Hopkins. “What were they doing—digging a new latrine?”

  “They were fools. They wouldn’t have gotten far in this storm. Captain Hopkins, we all have a common enemy now. Vinge was your man. This demon is no longer killing only Germans.”

  Hopkins smirked again then glowered at Gilman. “What about Window Hill, Major? The last time you trusted a German?”

  Gilman’s eyes went cold. “Hopkins, who I trust and why is none of your business, unless it happens to be you—which it’s not.”

  With the storm growing around him, Gilman leaned into the wind and motioned the MPs over. They slogged up close, eyeing Hopkins and his readied tommy gun.

  “Shit,” Hopkins said, lowering his weapon. Handing it to the nearest MP, he turned and stalked off through the gate.

  A few
minutes later, MPs were removing Bauhopf’s body from the Krankenhaus and taking it across to the rec hut past a line of grim-looking Germans. As Steuben called a meeting of hut captains outside the Krankenhaus, Cuno regretfully admitted his part in the night’s tragedy. “I was trying to prevent this,” he told Steuben. “Bauhopf and some others were determined to kill Kirst. I had to tell them what we had seen this afternoon—”

  “So it’s all over camp by now,” said Steuben. Cuno nodded. Steuben turned to confer with the hut captains. “Kirst is dead,” he began. “So is Bauhopf. So are Mueller, Dortmunder and Hoffman, and the MP, Sergeant Vinge. But the Americans are not to blame—nor are any of us. There is a story going around that something was living inside Kirst. That story is true. There is a monster loose in this camp.”

  The hut captains regarded Steuben blankly. Bruckner grunted.

  “It doesn’t matter to me what you choose to believe,” Steuben added. “I only care that from this point you follow orders and regard this as a military operation. That means no committees, no discussion, no voting—only orders.” He paused, glancing at each of them, his gaze settling on Bruckner. “Major Gilman wants all of us out,” he said.

  “Out?” said one of the men. “What do you mean, out?”

  “Out of this camp. Outside the fence” They looked at him in surprise. “This is not an invitation to escape. It’s a necessary move to save lives. Hut captains, round up your men, return to your huts, pick up only warm clothing and blankets. Leave behind all edible food and drink, and all cigarettes. You are to give the men strict orders not to eat, drink, or smoke anything that is presently inside this camp. Tell them the food is poisoned. Tell them anything you like, but every bit of it stays here. As soon as you’re ready, assemble outside the huts and wait for the MPs to escort you out. Any questions?”

  Beneath Hut 7 the nightform gathered into an undulating pool of blackness. The djinn listened to feet pounding against the floorboards overhead and the muffled chatter of frightened men, the snap of orders, pushing, sliding, things dropping, flurries of movement. Panic. Panic and chaos.

  Relishing those emotions, the nightform drifted under the steps that led up into Hut 7. From within its blackness, two yellow jewel eyes took form and peered across the compound. Everywhere, men could be seen coming out of the huts, carrying armloads of clothing and blankets and forming lines in the storm. Eyes furtively glanced about, each man unsure of the one standing next to him. Talk diminished as fear and suspicion took over. Beneath the steps, the djinn trilled happily to itself. Smoky black tendrils whipped out excitedly, as if even from this distance the djinn could grasp victims and pull them in.

  Time. Time enough. Wait. They’re not going anywhere. They think they are, but they’re not.

  The nightform withdrew up the corner of Hut 7 and settled across the roof as, within it, the djinn gathered all its force for a major assault.

  Bruckner emerged from his quarters with a terrified look. “What’s the matter?” said Steuben.

  “I can’t find Churchill.”

  “Enough with that damned dog—”

  Bruckner shot him a look of fury then moved down the corridor, banging on door after door, calling his dog. Steuben watched him throw open the outer door and holler into the storm, “Churchill!”

  Steuben turned and shoved the homemade knife into his belt then buttoned his coat over it. He no longer needed it for Kirst, but perhaps against this djinn...

  Huddled against the storm, Loring stood with Gilman as two MPs came by, headed for the gate with Vinge’s body on a stretcher between them. Other MPs worked Kirst’s body free of the barbed wire and brought it down, but Gilman ordered his remains sent to the German rec room. Loring said nothing as he leaned over to explain, “I’d just prefer leaving him inside the camp.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “You’re not really suggesting I send my men through this compound holding up mirrors. Can’t you come up with something a little better?”

  “Nothing else seems to have much effect.”

  “What about salt? You never got around to that earlier.”

  “I just wish we could test it. I mean, what if we’re face to face with the djinn, and we throw salt at him, and nothing happens?”

  “Is there any reason to think it might be effective?”

  “The dig at Ur-Tawaq was heavily salted. In those times, they salted tombs to keep evil spirits in check, The Romans used to salt the graves of their enemies killed in battle so they wouldn’t rise up again—”

  “Look, I don’t need a history lesson. I need ways of killing this thing.”

  Loring stared at him. He apologized then looked at her—with her hair storm-blown, her hands clutching the coat tightly about her body, her nose blue. She was shivering.

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “I’m all right. I’ll take care of myself.”

  Gilman thought back, recalling what they had been doing a short time ago. It already seemed distant, part of the unrecoverable past. He wanted to ask why she had made love to him, but he already knew. Desperation. Fear. Need. No love at all.

  He looked up as two squads of MPs double-timed through the gate, led by Lieutenant Blish but slowed by the storm as they headed down the hill to take charge of moving the Germans out. Behind the MPs came Hopkins. He stopped at the gate and shouted down to Gilman:

  “General headquarters on the radio, sir! They want a word with you!”

  The radio shack was a separate cabin behind the MP mm hall. Loring opened her coat mid warmed herself at the potbellied stove. Hopkins took the extra chair. Gilman replaced the radio operator at his seat and grabbed the microphone.

  “This is Major Gilman. Over.”

  A voice crackled from the speaker. “This is General Hawthorn. What’s all this crap about moving the prisoners, Major? Your assistant commandant wisely thought to check that order through channels. Are you aware that it’s against regulations? Would you care to discuss it? Over.”

  The last thing Gilman wanted was to get boxed into an explanation that would sound utterly ridiculous to an outsider. He opted for vagueness. “Sir, we have a condition here,” he said. “Some unexplained casualties. So far, eight Germans and one MP have been murdered. For the security of all concerned, I intend to move the prisoners out of the compound and quarter them in one building where they can be carefully watched. We’ve got a hell of a storm going, sir, and that’s making it difficult to conduct an investigation. Over.”

  Hopkins smirked, confident that the ploy wouldn’t work. They waited through the hash coming from the speaker as Hawthorn evidently conferred with other officers. Loring glanced out the grimy, iced-up window, but she couldn’t see the compound. Even the fence was obliterated by the storm. She felt as if she should be down there right now, because something was happening.

  The general came back on the line. “That’s a negative, Major. Your orders are to keep the Germans inside the compound and confined to their huts. Do not move them. Repeat, do not move them. Do you read me? Over.”

  Loring closed her eyes. This was getting out of hand.

  Gilman thought carefully before answering. France. Window Hill. Second Battalion. “I read you, sir. Over.”

  “I will send a detachment as soon as the weather lifts, Major. Do you read me on that as well? Over.”

  France. Window Hill “Yes, sir. I read you, sir. Over.”

  “Good, Major. I’m glad we understand each other. I will enter this conversation into my records. I advise you to do the same. Over and out.”

  Gilman turned the microphone back to the radio man and stood up. Hopkins was gloating.

  France. Window Hill. Never again.

  “Hopkins, haul your ass over to the office and write down that conversation. Add that you failed to obey my order and on your own initiative took the matter up with General Hawthorn. Say that upon signing off I decided to disobey the general’s orders”—Hopkins blanched—”and proceed on my own authori
ty. Have your stooge, Corporal Chilton, type it up for my signature. I’ll be outside, supervising the move—”

  “Sir, if you refuse to obey the general’s orders, I’ll have to assume command—”

  “You’ll assume shit!” Gilman leaped over to Hopkins. “I am not going to lose any more men! Now”—Gilman rebuttoned his coat—”get some guards into our mess hall. We’ll put the Germans in there. Are you with me, Captain?”

  Hopkins rose and nodded bitterly. “Yes, sir.”

  Gilman left with Loring. Outside, the storm had calmed; the wind had slowed. “It must be reassuring fighting your own officers,” Loring said.

  “That’s why we have captains and majors. The major doesn’t have to be right—he outranks the captain.”

  “And the general?”

  “Fuck the general.”

  Gilman slowed at the crest of the hill, expecting to see German POWs filing out the gate past armed MPs. But the gate stood open and there was no one guarding it.

  “Goddamnit.” His anger rose and he lengthened his stride, intent on chewing somebody out. Loring grabbed his arm and pointed into the camp. He paused and followed her arm and saw... nothing. Nothing but the fence and the sentry towers running to the left and the right Nothing but searchlights stabbing an impenetrable darkness. Nothing beyond the fence but blackness. No huts, no Germans, no MPs, no snow-covered slope. A black shroud hung over the compound, concealing everything. Even light couldn’t break through. Swirling snow was swallowed up in blackness.

  Gilman hardly heard Loring’s muttered gasp because of the sounds rising from within the camp. Howls of terror, screams of shock and fright, shooting—

  Yanking himself free of her clutching hand, Gilman floundered toward the gate.

  “Major!” she called.

  On his right, the sentry in the nearest tower descended quickly and hurried to join him, rifle ready.

  “Major—don’t go in there!”

  He went in.