by David Bishop
Otto grimaced. "When I heard that madness Goebbels was spouting, I knew where my true duty lay. My wife and daughter are cowering in a basement beneath our apartment building, less than a mile from the Reich Chancellery. When the Bolsheviks conquer Berlin, they'll extract a terrible price from our women for this war. God help us all if they unleash the vampyr upon the city. I'm going home to try and save my family. Either I get them out of Berlin, or I'll put them out of their misery and then turn the gun on myself." He produced a revolver and showed Hans the three bullets loaded inside it. "One for each of us, if the time comes."
Otto stopped so he could listen to the nearby Stalin's Organs firing at our retreating armies. "When the time comes."
Hans let Otto leave, not bothering to dissuade the veteran from his murderous plan. The war was lost. It was comforting to hope the Americans might reach Berlin first, but Hans knew that that was a false hope. These final days of April were the Reich's twilight. When it did fall, Hans had little doubt the invaders' revenge would be as terrible as Otto feared. Already the Russian forces were notorious for raping and pillaging as they advanced, like some Twentieth century army of Vikings, savouring the spoils of war. Berlin and its civilian populace could hope for no better treatment. The longer the war dragged on, the worst would be the backlash against the city's people. That was bad enough, but it chilled Hans's blood to discover that the vampyr were abroad in the midst of this madness, undead participants in this Götterdämmerung.
Karl found Hans sitting quietly alone. "You let the deserter go. Why?"
"One man more or less will make little difference now," Hans replied. "You've heard the same rumours as me... The Russians will be on the streets of Berlin within a week. That's where we should be too. Better to fight our battles where the buildings can offer us some refuge, yes?"
"Yes," Karl agreed. He studied Hans's face curiously. "What did the old man tell you?"
"Deep knife units are operating behind German lines, outflanking our defences."
"That's not a surprise."
Hans smiled thinly. "Some of these units are commanded by vampyr. Judging by the description Otto gave, Constanta may be among them, leading one of the units."
"God in heaven," Karl gasped. "The leader of the vampyr, here? Why would he risk getting involved in such a dangerous, unstable environment?"
"The end is close. My guess? Constanta wants to be in Berlin for the kill."
Karl stroked a hand nervously across his throat as if to protect it from the mere mention of Constanta's name. "We have to warn the others. Ralf and Gunther will want to know this too."
"That's my other reason for pulling back to the city. The four of us are stronger together than apart. The knowledge we have about how best to combat the vampyr could be vital in the days ahead. The fate of Germany could rest in our hands soon. Gather the Volkssturm and get them ready to move out. I'll address them in a few minutes and tell them about our new posting. We'll take them into Berlin and find a safer posting for the boys. After that, we go to Ralf and Gunther."
"Last message I had from Gunther, he and your brother were being transferred to one of the Flaktürme, but they weren't sure which one," Karl said.
Hans smiled. "Weren't you part of Hitler's private staff once?"
"Yes, before I got sent to Rumania."
"Good. I think it's time we made use of your contacts inside the Wehrmacht hierarchy."
Karl nodded. "What do you think will happen once the war is over?"
"An orgy of blood and torment and horror," Hans replied. "Then, once the vampyr have finished gorging themselves on the ruins of Berlin, they'll sink their teeth into the rest of Europe. The coming war will make this one look like a friendly skirmish by comparison."
Ralf and Gunther had spent a week atop the Humboldthain Flaktürme, a massive building in the northern area of Berlin that formed a key part of the city's defences. Three of these mighty structures had been built during the war, each blessed with concrete walls two metres thick and ceilings that were even thicker. They served as radio towers, platforms for anti-aircraft guns, hospitals and bomb shelters for civilians, and were able to house nearly 20,000 people each. So solid was each Flaktürme that Soviet tanks would struggle to scratch the exterior, even if firing at point blank range. Close to each structure stood a similar but slightly smaller satellite tower where spotters gathered information for the guns atop the main buildings.
When they arrived in Berlin, Ralf and Gunther reported for duty at the nearest barracks. They were quickly despatched to the Humboldthain, their experience with Panzer crews on the Ostfront marking the pair out as courageous, skilled fighters. Berlin needed such men more than ever, Ralf and Gunther were told. They arrived at the Flaktürme and quickly discovered the truth of that statement. The building was in disarray, overwhelmed by terrified civilians seeking shelter and sorely lacking in military resources.
The battle-hardened veterans removed themselves to the anti-aircraft gun emplacement atop the Flaktürme where both felt they could do the most good. Sleep became an ever more precious commodity as the rumble of Russian bombardments grew closer. Aerial attacks on Berlin grew more frenzied, with the Americans and British determined to crush any resistance from the German capital.
The Führer's birthday went uncelebrated at the Flaktürme. Nobody there felt like praising the leader they'd once hailed as the Fatherland's saviour. Ralf and Gunther spent the morning exhausting their meagre supply of anti-aircraft ammunition, combating aerial attacks on the city. By mid-afternoon both men were also spent, their reserves of energy all but a memory. They watched as the last British dive-bomber peeled away into the sky, leaving behind a devastated city of blazing buildings choked by a black cloud of smoke.
Ralf watched the other members of the anti-aircraft crew descend into the Flaktürme until only Gunther remained with him atop the tower. Once the two men had been part of a crack Panzer crew, driving their metal behemoth deep into enemy territory, striking at the heart of Germany's enemies. Now they were little more than bystanders of a war in its dying days, reduced to trying to swat the enemy from the sky. The pair sat down on the southern edge of the platform, their legs hanging down over the edge of the concrete building, looking out over the remains of Berlin.
"Sometimes, I wonder who are the real monsters in this war," Gunther muttered, "those bloodsucking fiends under Constanta's command, or our masters here in Berlin, condemning an entire nation to death so a few fools can go down in history. At least with the vampyr you faced an enemy you knew was motivated solely by its lust for blood. "
Ralf smiled at his friend, a little surprised by the comment. "I thought I was the bitter, twisted one and you were the cheerful optimist."
"Not anymore," Gunther replied, gesturing at the rubble and ruins splayed out below them, all that remained of the German capital. Every building within sight was pitted and scarred by Allied aerial bombardments. Once the Soviet artillery got into range, the damage would only get worse. Berlin faced devastation within a matter of days, a devastation from which it might never recover. Soon it would be indistinguishable from the remains of Stalingrad or a hundred other cities that had been lain waste by the war.
"What's left to be cheerful or optimistic about?" Gunther said quietly.
The smile faded from Ralf's soot-stained features. "We're still alive, if nothing else."
"But for how much longer?" Gunther asked. "We both know what's coming when this war ends... Constanta and his vampyr horde. They've had four years to prepare, learning all about us from our triumphs and our mistakes, our tactics and our weaknesses. Once the Russians have done their worst, the vampyr will move in to finish the job." Gunther spat over the side of the Flaktürme. "If push comes to shove, I'd rather be dead than undead, Ralf."
"Jump, if that's the way you feel," another voice commented. The two men twisted round to see Karl standing nearby. Beyond him Hans was clambering up through a hatchway on to the platform. "Because this
could be your last chance."
Ralf stood up. "What do you mean?"
Hans closed the hatch so their conversation could remain private. "Constanta's been spotted to the east of Berlin, less than ten kilometres from here. He was leading a Soviet deep knife unit on a convert mission."
"What mission?" Gunther asked, joining his friends in the centre of the platform.
"We're not certain," Karl admitted. "Constanta's men slaughtered a Volkssturm company of old men but made sure at least one survivor got away to tell others what they'd seen."
"Typical vampyr tactics: let fear win half the battles for you before the real fighting starts," Ralf observed. "When the real fiends appear, most people are too scared to do anything about it. Constanta's smart, I'll give him that."
"We can't win against the vampyr," Karl said quietly. "They'll tear this city apart and bleed every man, woman and child dry. Then the dead will become undead and Constanta will have an army of vampyr to fight his blood war. It's hopeless."
"Sounds like you should be the one contemplating jumping, if that's how you feel," Gunther replied sharply. "I've got no intention of giving in to these bloodsucking bastards, no matter how overwhelming the odds may be."
"But you said-"
"I'd rather be dead than undead," Gunther snapped. "That doesn't mean I'm willing to surrender Berlin to Constanta and his unholy kinsmen. We've all seen what they can do, what they're capable of. God in heaven, even dying isn't a final defence from these monsters! In Leningrad they resurrected the fallen - German and Russian - to attack us. I say we've waited long enough. It's time we fought back, one way or another."
Ralf nodded. "Gunther's right. We did as you suggested, Karl, to keep our own counsel while the war was stumbling to its conclusion. But those days are behind us now. We need to talk to those in charge of the German war machine, and alert them to the danger everyone faces."
"How?" Karl wailed, hopelessness in his voice.
Hans clapped a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "You were once part of Hitler's personal guard, remember? I think it's high time you reclaimed that job."
"Precisely," Ralf agreed. "With your contacts, you can get us close to the Führer. Then one of us has to convince that madman about the threat the vampyr pose to the Fatherland."
"It was Hitler's obsession with the supernatural that brought the undead into this war," Gunther added. "He can hardly deny they exist. He sent you with that envoy to Transylvania eight months ago, to try and convince Constanta to stay on our side against the Bolsheviks."
Hans shook his head. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. When Karl and I got assigned to shepherding the Volkssturm, we heard about a systematic purge of the Wehrmacht's official archives. They've destroyed anything in the files that even hints at Hitler's unholy alliance with the undead. The generals know the war is lost. All they care about now is protecting their reputation as noble soldiers. When the war is over, I doubt there'll be a single piece of evidence left to prove the Wehrmacht had anything to do with Constanta and his kind."
"That could work to our advantage," Ralf suggested. "If the purge is as ruthless as you say, it'll have wiped away any record of what we did at Ordzhonikidze in 1941. Should anyone ask questions about us, our files won't be there to betray us."
"Let's hope you're right," Gunther muttered.
"We have to try getting close to the Führer," Hans insisted. "He's the only one who can publicly declare war on the vampyr. Unless that happens, the German people will be like lambs to the slaughter, unaware that there are far worse enemies than the Red Army abroad in this conflict."
Karl bit his bottom lip nervously. "I don't know," he muttered. "I'm not sure I can get my old posting back. Even if I did, there's no guarantee I'll be able to get any of us close to Hitler."
Ralf rubbed a tired hand across the back of his neck. "You've got to try, Karl. You're our best hope of stopping this madness before it's too late."
SEVEN
I can still remember the night I first saw the blueprints for the Nazi's first nuclear weapon. It was the night of Hitler's last birthday, in April 1945. The Red Army had been surging towards Berlin in two distinct attacks, one from the east and another from the south-east. Our deep knife unit was active about twenty kilometres ahead of the latter attack, operating well behind the German defensive positions. Normally Gorgo kept the squad together as a single force, but that night he split the group into two. One of his vampyr bodyguards remained with the bulk of the commandos on the outskirts of a town called Luckenwalde. But the Rumanian sergeant chose a handful from among his troops for a special mission, travelling further north.
Inevitably, he picked his other bodyguard and the five who had been smert krofpeet before joining the deep knife unit: myself, Mariya, the Borjigin brothers and Eisenstein. In the eight months since we came under Gorgo's leadership, his thralls had been whittled away by the war. Every few weeks the sergeant would recruit a fresh crop of recruits from the Red Army's ranks, but they never lasted long. Reducing them to almost mindless drones made them effective as slaves but far less effective as soldiers.
By the time we were within fifty kilometres of Berlin, I doubted there was a single one from the original thralls still alive. Whenever Gorgo needed fighters for a particular mission, he always turned to the few free minds he had at his command.
So it was I found myself helping a vampyr and his bloodsucking bodyguard break into a secret German scientific facility nestled in a small valley outside the settlement of Gottow on the night of April 20th. The research centre was basic in construction; simply a rectangular cluster of long wooden buildings, all grouped together behind two concentric barbed wire fences. The sole entrance was a broad set of barbed wire gates beneath which a set of railway tracks had been laid, disappearing into the largest of the buildings.
We had located the research centre by following a siding from a major train line that passed by a kilometre to the west of the facility. Raised lookout towers stood at the front corners of the encampment with guards inside sweeping the surrounding countryside with searchlights, cutting broad arcs across the pine forests and gently undulating hillocks. The seven of us observed the research centre for more than an hour from the shelter of a wooded copse, watching the guards go through a well-worn routine. The sentries were plainly not expecting an attack of any kind. They looked well fed and comfortable; nothing that would offer us any significant resistance. When I questioned Gorgo about the need for such caution, he sneered at me dismissively. "If those inside the facility realise they are under attack, they will destroy the secrets I seek. Stealth has its uses, mortal."
Once Gorgo was satisfied with his assessment of our target, he sent the two Mongolians to infiltrate the perimeter fences, accompanied by one of his bodyguards to make sure they obeyed orders. I had grown fond of the Borjigin brothers over the preceding eight months, even learning a few words and phrases of their native tongue. The pair had been far more adept at picking up a mixture of Russian, German and even some Rumanian, enough for them to hold a halting conversation with any of us. It transpired that the two brothers were identical twins: Baatar and Saikhan. Roughly translated, their names meant warrior and peace respectively. Since none of us could tell them apart, I took to calling both of them Baatar and left it at that. The others adopted the same system which pleased the twins. They seemed to enjoy the anonymity of being interchangeable, sharing many a joke between them followed by their gruff but friendly laughter.
The twins were adept thieves and burglars, able to penetrate almost any defence. They slipped beneath the lazy sweep of the searchlights and cut a path through both barbed wire fences, Gorgo's bodyguard close behind. Within minutes the Rumanian gave us the "all-clear" signal from atop the nearest watchtower, having dealt with the sentry inside. The rest of us crept forward, staying low to the ground, and not wishing to attract the attention of any German soldiers outside of the perimeter fence. We'd seen no evidence of external patrols, but tha
t didn't mean they weren't out there. By the time we were all inside the fences, the twins had slit the throats of the remaining watchtower sentries. Gorgo told the Mongolians to remain outside with his bodyguard and Mariya, while the sergeant chose Eisenstein and I to go inside with him.
"I want you two where I can see you," the Rumanian hissed when I questioned his decision.
Eisenstein was a changed man since our departure from Transylvania the previous autumn. All the time we were within the boundaries of the vampyr heartland, I was never sure I could trust him. But once we passed beyond that place of darkness and horror, he became much more like the Eisenstein I had grown to trust like a father during the Siege of Leningrad. He still carried the vampyr taint upon him, and it was plainly a heavy burden for any soul to sustain, no matter what their belief system. But he regained some of the dry humour and wit I had known before. The further we got from Castle Constanta, the more like his old self Eisenstein became. I realised Mariya had been right to argue for sparing our comrade's life. His soul might be damned or doomed, but he was still on our side in this war... And the next, when it came.
As midnight passed and Friday became Saturday, Gorgo led Eisenstein and me from one building to the next at the research facility. The first resembled a munitions factory, although I did not recognise much of the equipment stored inside the unlit structure. The second building held massive devices I'd heard much about but had never seen before: V1 flying bombs. Propaganda broadcasts from Moscow had told us about new weapons of terror being unleashed by the Nazis; unmanned rockets that dropped from the sky and exploded on impact with the ground. Fortunately for the Russian people these weapons of destruction had been predominantly directed at targets on the western front of the war in Europe.
