by Mark Leggatt
“I get it. He was looking in the wrong place. He was two miles away.”
“Yeah, now check out the bunker in the forest.”
“It’s just a bunker.”
She grinned. “If it was a German bunker, why are the gun slits facing west?”
Montrose looked closely at the screen. “Maybe the Russians…”
“This guy has done some research. When the Russians got here they covered the place in concrete to have somewhere to put their trucks and tanks in winter. They were advancing fifty miles a day. They didn’t need to set up bunker defenses. Any place around here covered in concrete? Like a truck park?” She pointed through the trees, then down to the screen. “But this guy thinks that because the bunker is facing the wrong way and there’s no trace of the buildings, or the concrete, then the original story was a hoax. I mean the guy who originally wrote it was never seen again.” She stood up.
“But you mean that the bunker in the forest is a hoax? Not the original story?”
“Yeah, someone read the blog, built a bunker two miles away to throw people off the scent, then built it facing the wrong way.”
“So, if there was a real bunker…”
“Some of it will still be here. Because those things are an absolute bastard to destroy.” She thumbed the app and the drone lifted into the air again.
Montrose stood beside her. “My bet is that they broke it up. These don’t look like people to go to all the trouble of building a decoy bunker and not get rid of the original.”
“Maybe,” said Kirsty, “but if they did, I’ll bet they didn’t get rid of the foundations. Because that’s where the urbex guy said he entered the cellars. And if it’s still there, it’ll be four feet thick, so no trees are going to grow through it.”
The drone lifted higher into the air.
“Kirsty…”
“Sshh, I’m trying to …”
“Kirsty.” He pointed through the trees to the clearing where the drone had been. “The clearing. There are no trees there.”
Kirsty looked up, locked the controls so the drone would hover, then moved through the trees. The clearing was an uneven carpet of moss and pine needles. She kicked up soft earth with her boot, and hit stone.
Montrose knelt down and pulled away at the earth. He grabbed a rock and rolled it over. On the underside were pebbles protruding from a lump of concrete. In the center was a scar where a pneumatic drill had punched through. “This is it.”
She kicked away at the earth, shoving moss to the side. “And this isn’t the original bunker floor.” She pointed down at a grey surface. “That’s modern concrete.” She held a misshapen fragment in her hands. “That’s World War Two shit. I know, I’ve seen enough of it in the UK.” She stepped back. “They sealed this up tight. There’s no way we’ll get through there.”
He dropped the concrete. “Maybe he found a way in, maybe there’s another...”
“Where?” She threw her arms around, pointing to the thick green forest floor and the dense branches. “It’s like looking for a needle…” She stopped, open-mouthed, staring at the trees. “Oh, you beauty.”
“What?”
“The aircon units!”
“What?”
“Heat flows like water. If they need all those aircon units, then I’ll bet my sweet Welsh arse…” She tapped the screen and lifted the drone into the air. “We’re going to need a better map. Hold this. Give me your phone.”
“What are you going to...?”
“I’m going to take screen shots of the two maps, then superimpose the old 1930s map of Rhiandorf that Priti gave us onto this position. Then we’ll know where we are. Keep an eye on that screen.”
She took his phone and brought up an image editor, then merged the two pictures. “What do you see?”
The infra-red camera showed three white shapes. “That’s you, me, and…”
“And a heat leak sticking out like a priest in a playground. Either that or someone is having an invisible barbecue, ten feet from here.”
“According to the map, we’re in a schoolyard off the market square.” Montrose had a mental glimpse of children sleeping as incendiary bombs and burning phosphorus fell from the night sky.
Kirsty watched the drone moving over the trees.
“You said this guy found the cellars. You think they survived?”
She pointed to the screen. “I think we’re looking at them. That’s not as crazy as it sounds. Even new London buildings are built on old pre-war cellars. Looking at Priti’s info, rich mediaeval market towns like Rhiandorf had loads of substantial buildings centered around the main square. The cellars could go down three levels, for storage. Everything came through a market town like Rhiandorf. This was like the Amazon of the region.”
“You reckon they go that deep?”
“Yeah, Germans buildings went deeper than those in London. In cities like Berlin and Hamburg, they didn’t have an underground to hide in and nothing like the network of shelters built in the UK during the Blitz. They all went down to the cellars and they’d knock through from one cellar to another, covering the holes with paper, so that if one cellar was breached then they could escape to another.”
“But this was no ordinary bombing.”
“No. They could not have prepared themselves for what happened that night.” She pointed through the forest. “North of the airport where we landed. I read about what happened to Dresden. They were supposed to be targeting a major railway junction, but they were loaded with more incendiaries than explosives. It was a firestorm that lasted for days, and even if people survived the bombing, they suffocated in the heat. The inferno sucked in winds from around the countryside to feed the flames. It was so strong it pulled people off their feet and into the fires.”
Montrose could hear branches creaking in the slight breeze.
“And that night, in this forest, the bombers found what they what they were looking for. The target marker. They had the same mixture of high explosive and incendiaries. Enough to burn the entire city of Dresden to the ground. And they dropped it on the market town of Rhiandorf.”
He stared through the trees, standing where the people had once stood.
“When the Russians advanced they found nothing. Just blackened lumps of stone. Everything for miles had been incinerated.”
Montrose stepped into the clearing. The ground was uneven and at one side, near to where the heat signal showed, he saw an upended tree, its roots spread into the air. He looked down at the hole the trunk had left and saw the jumble of stones where the tree had once stood. “This isn’t the bunker. These stones have been shaped. Building stones.”
“This is it,” she said. “They may have closed the bunker, but the weight of the tree has pushed through the rubble from the collapsed buildings.”
He checked the map. “The schoolhouse?”
“Maybe.”
He stepped into the depression, trying to keep his balance on the loose rubble. “I know why the tree fell.” He raised himself up on his toes and dropped down. The ground was rock hard. He jumped into the air and slammed his boots onto the earth. “The roots couldn’t penetrate. They couldn’t go deep enough. Because of the stone.”
Kirsty knelt and started to scoop away moss and earth with her hand, then pulled jagged fragments of stone from the ground. Around her knees the earth began to subside and she scrambled backwards.
“Let’s go carefully,” said Montrose.
“Get behind me,” said Kirsty. “Hold me tight. I don’t want to become Alice in Wonderland.” She scooped up more earth and threw it to the side, exposing a flat rock. “That’s too big to lift.” She got to her feet and stepped back. “Ready?” She stabbed the rock with her boot.
It dropped an inch and Kirsty shoved a boot forward and gave it another kick. With a raw scraping sound,
it dropped out of sight, exposing a black hole. They both stumbled backwards, watching loose earth disappearing into the darkness.
“You first,” said Kirsty. “Age before beauty.”
Montrose looked into the black hole. “Yeah, I think we should…”
“Never mind,” said Kirsty. “I’ll go. Just keep a good tight hold of my boots.” She knelt down then lay onto her chest, edging closer towards the edge of the hole, then pulled out her cell phone and shone the torch into the blackness. “Wow!” She pushed forward and let her head drop forward.
“What can you see?”
“Absolutely bugger all, except what might be a floor. But I’m not going head first.” She pushed herself out then spun around and held out a hand to Montrose. “Let me down slowly,” she said, “you know, like one of your many girlfriends.”
“Kirsty…”
She lay down and let her feet drop into the hole, then wriggled forward on her backside. “Okay, let go.”
Montrose slowly released his grip and she slid out of sight.
“Kirsty?”
She did not reply.
“Kirsty!”
A voice came from below. “Yeah, I’m here. Throw my bag down.”
Holding her bag, Montrose slid towards the hole and sat at the edge. He felt Kirsty’s hands on his calves.
“It’s a six-foot drop,” she said. “Go for it.”
He let go and dropped into the darkness. A shaft of light lay at his feet and Montrose looked back up at the sky. He played his phone torch around the room. A solid brick wall stood on three sides and the torchlight disappeared into darkness on the other. “Looks like dead ahead is the only way.” Damp earth lay at his feet, but the walls looked dry.
Kirsty brushed off her jeans and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Montrose shone his torch past her and followed close behind. To one side he saw a stack of crates. The markings had faded, but he could make out a Wehrmacht eagle. “Kirsty.” He played the torchlight across the wooden slats. “This is it. This is wartime Rhiandorf.” He heard her blow out a breath. “I thought this was just a market town,” he said.
“The whole of Europe was at war, Connor, army kit was all over the place.” She lifted her torch to the roof. “The fire didn’t come down here. At least, not this far.”
“Is this where they hid? All the people?” he said.
“I guess those that could. I don’t suppose they had much warning.”
“Do you think they made it…?”
“Connor, if Rhiandorf was anything like Dresden, it burned for fucking days.”
He said nothing and kept close behind her. The torch shone through a dark doorway and onto a brick wall.
“Dead end?”
“No,” said Kirsty as she stood in the doorway and shone the torch at her feet. “We go down.”
The steps were smooth with age. In front, Kirsty’s torch showed a short corridor, where the remnants of a door lay scattered across the ground. She shone the torch into the doorway, but the room was filled with rubble. Ten feet away another door hung from its hinges, forced open by a jumble of stones tumbling through the doorway. She shone the torch past the door to another wall, and the black void on the floor. “Down again.”
“This might be a dead end, Kirsty.”
She shook her head. “The heat was coming from somewhere. Can’t you feel it?”
The air was warm and dry. “Yeah. They built these places real solid.”
“Doesn’t matter how solid, a bomb from thirty thousand feet will go down twenty feet. They are still digging them out all over Germany.” She stood at the top of the stairs. “The people would have known that. They would go as deep as they could. Even though they knew they might be buried alive.”
Montrose followed her down the steep steps. At the bottom the air was warmer and a faint noise came from the darkness.
“I know that sound,” said Kirsty.
“Me too,” said Montrose. “Server cabinets. Each blade server with a fan. I worked next door to a computer room. It was deafening.”
“Yeah,” she said, and held up the torch. “I think we just wandered into the Death Star.” They both pulled out their pistols. She looked down at her weapon. “You know, if this is the Silk Road, the biggest illegal arms market on the planet, I think we just brought a rubber chicken to a gunfight.”
Montrose felt the metal warm on his hand and tightened his hand around the pistol grip. “Yeah. Let’s see what we see. If we find the missiles then we’ll report back to Pilgrim. Then it’s his problem.”
“Oh, yeah. His problem.”
He could tell she was smiling. “Kirsty…”
Her torch shone on a doorway to the side. In front, a mound of earth and rubble filled the corridor to the roof.
“Looks like…”
“Connor, turn your torch off.”
He shoved the pistol into his waistband and killed the torch. “What…?”
“Wait. Let your eyes adjust.”
The white noise was louder and just below the roof a faint glow appeared over the rubble. He heard Kirsty edge forward, feeling her way, then climbing to the top. Rocks and earth rolled down behind her. The silhouette of her head cut through the faint glow. “What do you see?”
“Lights in the distance. Too far.” Her torch beam shone at her feet as she slid to the floor. “It goes on for about twenty feet, I think. There’s no way past it. We’d never be able to crawl through. But that’s the heat source.” She shone the torch at the edge of the rubble, then across their feet to a door set into the wall. “Last chance. Everything else is a dead end.”
The door was unpainted with an iron handle. Montrose took hold. It didn’t move, then with a grinding sound, it slid slowly down. He pushed, but the door remained shut. “It might be bolted from inside.”
“Give it a kick.”
He put his shoulder to the door and shoved hard, and it scraped open an inch. “There’s something blocking it.” He took a step back and booted the wood.
They heard metal hitting the floor. Kirsty shone her torch into the gap. A steel German helmet lay on the ground.
“Shit,” said Kirsty.
They both stared down at the helmet, then Kirsty lifted her foot over it and squeezed through the gap.
He saw her shine her torch to the floor.
“Oh, man.”
Montrose shoved his way into the gap. He stood behind Kirsty and looked down at the bottom of the door. The mummified body of a German soldier lay with his back to the wood. The skin on his face resembled parchment, tightly drawn over his skull. Across his chest lay his Mauser rifle. The eyes had dried and sunk into their sockets.
“He didn’t leave his post,” she said.
“I think there was nowhere to go.”
Kirsty shifted the torch beam to the side. “He didn’t burn.”
“But his skin…”
“He suffocated,” said Kirsty. “The firestorm above would have sucked the oxygen from miles around. Then he was sealed in. The heat must have dried him.” She looked away. “We have to move.”
Montrose shone his torch to each side and saw old furniture and boxes stacked against the wall. “If we can find another door…”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” Kirsty shone her torch onto the floor where a child’s doll lay broken.
Montrose glanced down. At first, he thought they were bundles of rags. Then he saw the shoes, and lifting the light, the mummified faces sunk into the clothes, and the smaller clothes, still held close in withered arms.
The bodies stretched back as far as his torch beam and disappeared into the darkness.
“I can’t look,” said Kirsty.
Montrose shone the beam along the wall. He came to the top of a door and let the beam drop. He saw the
body of a boy lying on his side, clutching a rifle that was longer than his own body. “Follow me, I see a door.” He reached back and led her past the outstretched feet and hands, then stood before the door and looked at the boy. “Give me a moment.” He bent and placed his phone on the ground, then took the rifle from the boy, leaned it against the wall, then gently lifted the boy to the side. The skin and bones felt weightless in his hands. He picked up his torch and pulled open the door. It swung slowly on its hinges and they stepped through into darkness.
Kirsty pushed past him, blowing out a breath. “I could see their faces.”
Montrose closed the door.
“The heat,” she said. “They would have been sealed in by the collapsing buildings. It must have been like an oven.” She switched on the torch. “When this is over…”
“Yeah, I know.”
Kirsty lifted the torch beam. “What the fuck?”
In front of them was a tall glass cabinet, its door open and a naked mannequin on the floor. Montrose lifted the torch. Two rows of cabinets stretched into the distance, with doors open and mannequins lying on the ground.
Kirsty walked between the glass cabinets. “Say something, Connor. Say something reassuring, because I’m all weirded out for one day.”
He pointed to the bottom of the glass case and lifted a thin piece of metal and read out the inscription. “Field Marshal Montgomery. Sicily, 1944.”
“Eh? What the hell is a nameplate with Monty’s name on it doing three floors below a bombed German town?”
He tapped the glass. “This isn’t a wartime cabinet. This is modern plate glass.”
Kirsty walked over and checked the next cabinet. “Gaius Julius Caesar.” She moved forward and slowly read another. “An-Nasir Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub.” She looked up. “Who?”
“Saladin.” He picked up another. “George S. Patton. Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel.”
“Bloody hell, this is the weirdest Facebook group I’ve ever seen.”
