The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  Inside was dark. Hoffman reached for a switch, and lights flickered into life overhead, casting a harsh luminance over the chamber. The heavy door swung shut behind them, closing with a metallic clang that echoed off the stone walls and floor. The ceiling was like the roof of a cathedral, high above. Shadowed alcoves stretched into the distance, ending in another identical hatch-like metal doorway.

  The end of the long chamber where they were standing was like an operations room. Wooden tables were covered with papers and plans. Diagrams and blueprints that meant nothing to Guy. Maps were hung on the walls, marked with colored pins and penciled annotations.

  “These are interesting,” Davenport said quietly, nodding at the maps.

  “We should have brought a camera,” Guy said.

  “I can memorize them,” Davenport assured him. “It’ll only take a minute. This is the burial site in France, look.” He moved on to the next map. “Shingle Bay—rather an old map. Italy, North Africa … And several Greek islands. That’s Crete.”

  “What’s the significance?” Guy asked.

  Hoffman shrugged. “Streicher is always on the hunt for more artifacts. Sometimes he is right when he predicts where they might be found. Usually he isn’t. He claims he is on the track of a huge cache of Vril material but…” He waved the notion away. “I’ll believe it when I see it. And I hope that’s never. But this isn’t why I brought you here.”

  He led them through the chamber toward the other door. But before they reached it, Hoffman stepped into one of the alcoves. He pulled a small lever attached to an electrical box on the wall beside the alcove and more lights came on. The alcove was an arched opening into another chamber, as big as the first.

  A heavy wooden workbench ran down the length of the table. It was covered with artifacts—pottery, glass, metal, ceramic. Neatly written labels gave each artifact or collection of similar artifacts a number. Guy saw that there were more, similar tables against the walls, all laid out in the same way.

  “What are these things?” he wondered out loud.

  “Most of them—we have no idea,” Hoffman said. “They are all artifacts that Streicher or his colleagues have recovered. They are examined and catalogued. Kruger and his team work on some of them. Experts in various fields are brought in to analyze certain components. They call them ‘components,’ but components of what I do not know. Perhaps no one does.”

  At the end of the chamber, metal shutters covered what might be a window or an opening. Beside them was another wooden workbench. On it were the Vril.

  One was in a cracked glass jar. A scum of fluid stained the bottom of the jar. The creature lay curled on its back, inert. Dead. One of the stick-like legs had shattered, another was bent backward. It was a dried up husk, desiccated, like an enormous ancient spider.

  Another of the creatures was pinned out on a wooden board, like a school dissection project. The legs were splayed away from the body, held in place by staples as if it had been manacled in position. It was as dry and dead as the first.

  A third Vril was standing at the end of the workbench. Guy gasped as he caught sight of it, thinking the creature was still alive, preparing to leap at him. But it didn’t move, and he saw that it was held up by a thin metal armature like a stuffed animal in a museum.

  On a shelf behind this Vril, large specimen jars held fragments of other creatures in green-tinged liquid—a leg, part of the main body, a single dark eye …

  “Recovered from the Black Forest in 1936,” Hoffman said. “Or so I am led to believe.”

  “Were they dead when they were found?” Davenport asked. He was staring at the upright creature with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.

  “These ones were.”

  “These ones?” Guy echoed.

  In answer, Hoffman turned a small handle at the side of the metal shutters. The shutters drew back slowly, revealing glass behind—a window looking into a tank of gray-green liquid. For a second, Guy thought the tank was empty. But then the liquid stirred. Green slime swilled round inside. Something slammed against the glass—a long, dark limb. It left a slimy trail as it whipped away again. A hideous face appeared out of the murky depths. Dark eyes stared malevolently out at Guy and Davenport and Hoffman. The grotesque twisted maw of a mouth opened and closed, snapping shut so violently that the liquid churned again.

  “My God,” Davenport said. “What a vile, hideous thing.”

  From behind them came the click of a pistol being cocked.

  Guy saw their reflection in the glass before he turned—the major and the captain from the corridor. The captain was holding the pistol. The sentry from the door stood beside them, rifle unshouldered and aimed.

  “I had some more questions to ask you,” the major said stepping forward, hands clasped behind his back. “But hearing you speaking in English just now—well, I think I have my answers.”

  He walked slowly to the side of the room, never taking his eyes off Guy and the others.

  “I can explain,” Hoffman said.

  “No, you can’t,” the major told him.

  “Sir?” the captain asked.

  The order when it came was dismissive. The major turned away, apparently bored with the whole scenario. “Shoot them.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Guy dived for cover, hoping that Davenport understood what was going on. Hoffman was already going the other way, and Davenport was close behind him as the captain’s Luger pistol fired two shots in rapid succession at the space where the three of them had just been standing.

  The first shot ricocheted off the floor, chipping stone before slamming into the wall. The second shot was higher. It cracked into the middle of the glass tank containing the Vril creature. A spider’s web of fine lines splayed out from the point of impact. But the glass held. Behind it the creature’s dark eyes watched coldly. A single thin tentacle caressed the inside of the glass, searching out any damage. Sharp spines on the underside of the tentacle rippled and jabbed.

  Hoffman had taken cover behind the workbench and drew his own Luger. His first shot went wide, but sent the captain scurrying for cover. The sentry was slower. He struggled to bring his rifle to bear, and Hoffman’s second bullet caught him in the forehead. The man froze, as if he’d been startled. Then he simply crumpled at the knees, and collapsed face down on the floor. Blood pooled round his head.

  “You’ll die for this—traitor!” the major yelled from where he was sheltering in the shadow of the alcove. He couldn’t get to the main door without stepping out into Hoffman’s line of fire.

  The captain was shooting again. Guy reckoned he and Davenport were safe enough in the recess of an alcove. But they were pinned down with no means of fighting back.

  “Only a matter of time before someone else comes down here,” Davenport said.

  Another shot blasted past. Chips of broken stone stung Guy’s face. Hoffman appeared above the level of the workbench, just for long enough to fire a shot of his own. Behind him, the Vril watched through the cracked glass window. Tentacles reached round the edges of the damage, as if the creature was bracing itself. Then the main body slammed forward, crashing into the weak point where the bullet had hit.

  “Look out!” Guy shouted to Hoffman.

  Closest to the tank, Hoffman turned to see what was happening—just as the whole of the front of the glass tank shattered under the impact of the Vril’s assault. Dark, viscous liquid poured out, sweeping away the remains of the glass which crashed to the floor, smashing into fragments.

  The creature gathered its tentacles beneath it, stood poised for a moment, then leaped from the tank. It hit Hoffman in the chest, knocking him backward—just as a bullet roared past. It lay on top of Hoffman, bulbous body pulsating, legs twitching. Hoffman gave a cry of pain as one of the rough tentacles ripped across his leg, sharp spines raking across and drawing blood.

  Then the Vril was gone—scuttling across the room, splashing through the puddle of liquid and disappearing under a workb
ench.

  “That’s what I saw,” Davenport gasped. “In France—I’m sure of it. As I was escaping from the burial chamber with Streicher. There was one of those things there.”

  Hoffman dragged himself back into cover as the captain shot again. The major had drawn his own gun and joined the battle. Under cover of the distraction of the breaking tank, they had both moved forward to better positions. Guy realized that they were trapped—the captain was almost on them. He called for Hoffman to help, but the German’s gun clicked on empty.

  The captain stepped into the alcove, gun raised, mouth curled into a smile of eager anticipation. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  With a yell of rage, Guy leaped at the man, driving him backward. The captain’s gun went off, the bullet drilling into the ceiling high above them. A scattering of dust fell back. The captain swung the gun savagely, catching Guy on the side of the head and knocking him back. He raised the pistol again. And screamed.

  A dark scaly tentacle wrapped round the side of the captain’s head, across his mouth. Another appeared from the other side, jerking his head back. There was an awful cracking sound as the man’s neck broke and he collapsed. The Vril sat perched like some grotesque gargoyle on the man’s back, pulsing and twitching. Then it scuttled off into the shadows.

  A split second later, the major’s bullets ripped through where the Vril had been, shredding the captain’s body and spattering blood and tissue across the floor.

  Davenport grabbed Guy, pulling him back into cover. “Just one of them now,” he said. “We can rush him.”

  “And get shot?”

  “Or get our necks snapped by that creature. Take your pick.”

  Guy glanced across to where Hoffman was lying. He hoped the major didn’t speak English, and called out: “You up to distracting him?”

  Hoffman was massaging his leg where the Vril had scratched it open. But he nodded at Guy. He retrieved his pistol from where it had fallen, and checked the ammunition. He shook his head and shrugged.

  “I am out of ammunition,” Hoffman called in German. “And that creature will kill us all if it gets the chance. We should fight it together.”

  “Fight with a traitor to the Reich? To the SS? To everything I believe in?” the major yelled back. “Never.”

  “I am sorry you feel that way. But in that case…” Hoffman stood up, hands clasped behind his head. “I surrender.” He stepped out from behind the workbench.

  The distraction was enough. As the major watched Hoffman, Guy and Davenport charged from the alcove. Guy rugby tackled the major, his shoulder crunching into the man’s legs just above the knee. Davenport slammed into him higher up. The major was knocked sideways. His pistol clattered to the floor. He struggled back to his feet, but Guy grabbed one of his arms and Davenport held the other fast.

  Hoffman walked slowly over to them, glancing round to make sure the Vril creature was nowhere in evidence. He paused to scoop up the major’s fallen pistol.

  “You will never get away with this,” the major said. “Someone will have heard the gunfire.”

  “The creature escaped and killed the captain,” Hoffman said. “We were shooting at it.”

  The major shook his head. “No one will believe that. And anyway, someone must have allowed the creature to escape.”

  “I shall tell them it was you.”

  “Yet you are the one with the British friends. No one will listen to you, not when I tell them the truth. I shall tell them everything.”

  Hoffman considered for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said at last. He raised the major’s gun.

  The sound of the shot seemed louder than all the others, right next to Guy’s ear. The arm he was holding became a dead weight as the major’s lifeless body slumped.

  Davenport looked pale as he too let go and the body fell to the floor, blood mingling with the scummy liquid from the tank. “Was that necessary?”

  “You know it was,” Hoffman said. “And now you’d better get away from here.”

  “Come with us,” Guy said.

  Hoffman shook his head. “I can sort out this mess. And someone needs to deal with that creature. Now get out before the guards arrive.” He winced. “Anyway, that bastard thing ripped my leg open. I doubt I can run, but you may have to.” He held out his hand. “Good luck.”

  “And you.” Guy shook Hoffman’s hand.

  Moments later, he and Davenport were hauling open the heavy metal door to the Vault. They passed soldiers running the other way in the passage outside.

  “Quickly,” Guy shouted in German. “Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman needs your help—and fast!”

  * * *

  The metal rod was attached by a cable to batteries in the soldiers’ backpacks. Three of them had the rods, which worked like cattle prods. They held them out in front of them, sweeping back and forth as they progressed slowly across the chamber, like blind men feeling their way through the darkness of life.

  Kruger watched, frowning heavily. “How did it happen?”

  Hoffman shrugged. “It was so fast. The captain just went berserk. He shot the major at point-blank range. Not pretty. The sentry heard the shot and came in…”

  “Hauptsturmfuhrer Reizl always struck me as rather level-headed.”

  “Not today,” Hoffman said grimly. “Perhaps he has some history with the major?”

  “He shot the sentry too?”

  “And tried to kill me when I intervened,” Hoffman said. He nodded at the cut across his leg. The lower half of the trouser leg was soaked in blood. A makeshift tourniquet was tied tight round his thigh. “The bullet grazed my leg, as you can see. Then it hit the tank.”

  “The glass should have withstood that.”

  “It did. But it was weakened enough that the creature…” Hoffman broke off as there was a shout from across the chamber.

  “Don’t harm it unless you have to,” Kruger called. “We should keep well back,” he said more quietly to Hoffman. “It’s a vicious brute. I lost two men getting it into that tank in the first place.”

  “Like Hauptsturmfuhrer Reizl,” Hoffman said, remembering the crack of bone as the creature snapped the man’s neck.

  Two white-coated scientists were holding a large glass jar between them, ready to place it over the creature as soon as it was exposed and in the open. They never got the chance. One of the soldiers with the electric prods jabbed under the workbench where they had spotted the Vril. There was a crackle of electrical discharge and a flash of sparks. A smell like charred wood permeated the chamber.

  With a screech of pain, the creature shot out from under the workbench. The scientists struggled to lower the bell jar as the dark, spindly creature blurred past them. But too late. The Vril hammered into one of the scientists, knocking his legs from under him. The jar fell, smashing to pieces, fragments of glass flying across the room.

  The other scientist shouted a warning, but too late. The creature’s gnarled tentacles whipped across the fallen man’s face and neck. Then the thing was gone, leaving a bloodied mess behind, a red trail across the stone floor.

  The soldiers backed away. The remains of the fallen scientist spasmed, spluttered, and stuttered into silent stillness.

  “What is going on here?” a voice asked calmly in the silence that followed.

  The harsh light glinted on Himmler’s spectacles as he looked first to Kruger then to Hoffman for an answer.

  “The creature is out,” Hoffman said.

  “There was an … an accident, Reichsfuhrer,” Kruger blustered. “It wasn’t our fault. The tank was strong enough—”

  “Excuses waste time. How many men are dead?”

  “Four,” Hoffman said. “So far.”

  Himmler’s forehead creased. “Then why haven’t you killed it?”

  “Killed it, Reichsfuhrer?” Kruger stammered.

  “You know what those creatures are like,” Himmler snapped. “What they do.” He turned to Hoffman. “Destroy it, Sturmbannfuhrer
—before it kills us all.”

  Hoffman clicked his heels and nodded, ignoring the stab of pain in his wounded leg. He drew his Luger and walked down the chamber toward where the soldiers had again cornered the creature, this time in an alcove. He was aware of Himmler walking close behind him.

  “Drive it this way,” Hoffman ordered.

  “But, sir—it’ll kill anything it touches.”

  “Do it.” Hoffman braced himself, gun aimed at the empty air in front of him. “Now.”

  Two of the soldiers prodded forward. Another explosion of sparks, and the hideous creature was moving again, racing toward Hoffman. It launched itself toward him, tentacle-legs splayed to reveal vicious barbs arranged on the inside edge, tiny pincers snapping at the ends. He waited until he could see every detail, until the dark, cold eyes were fixed on his own.

  Then he fired.

  The first shot missed completely, ricocheting away. The second caught the creature full in the bloated main body. The force of it hammered the Vril across the chamber and it crashed into the wall. It slid down, leaving a sticky green trail down the stonework. Hoffman fired again.

  The other soldiers were firing too now. A blizzard of bullets ripped into the creature tearing it to pieces, scattering its brittle flesh and bone and its glutinous innards across the floor.

  Finally, the guns fell silent, leaving only the drifting smoke and the smell of cordite mingled with a musty, ancient stench of death.

  “Leave us,” Himmler said in the sudden silence. “All of you, out. You can clean up later, Kruger.”

  “I’m sorry, Reichsfuhrer,” Hoffman said, holstering his Luger. “I’m sure the creature would have been more use to us alive.” He gave a brisk salute and turned to leave.

  “Stay a moment, Hoffman,” Himmler said.

  “Reichsfuhrer?”

  Himmler waited until everyone else was gone before he spoke again. “There is something I want you to see, Werner.”

  Hoffman couldn’t recall the Reichsfuhrer addressing him by his first name before. He wasn’t aware the man even knew it. He followed Himmler across the chamber, past the scattered remains of the Vril creature, to the heavy metal hatch-like door beyond.