The Front (Book 2): Red Devils

by David Moody

  ‘How so, Lieutenant?’

  ‘We were led to believe that the Nazis intended harvesting the germ and loading it onto their weapons. Rockets and other such. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

  ‘Good grief. You mean Jerry was planning to fire the germ straight at us?’

  ‘Yes. And if you needed any indication of the seriousness of our predicament, which I’m sure you don’t, remember that the Nazis appear to have so far resisted doing so. I wonder if the Reich have begun to realise the full implications of what they’ve created.’

  ‘Strikes me as inhuman that anyone – Nazi or otherwise – could even contemplate using a weapon like this,’ Harris said, the disgust in his voice barely concealed.

  ‘War makes good men do awful things, don’t ever forget that,’ Wilkins warned.

  ‘Our boys would never stoop so low,’ Harris said.

  ‘Be under no illusions, if we’re not successful in stopping this deadly infection, something far worse may be unleashed. You heard Colonel Adams’ warning.’

  The endless parade of the burning dead was strangely hypnotising, but the men knew they needed to focus on the task at hand. ‘Any sign of Sergeant Steele?’ Jones wondered.

  ‘Nothing,’ Harris said. ‘Not a peep.’

  ‘We can’t afford to wait,’ Wilkins said. ‘We must keep moving.’

  Schematics of the concentration camp had been hard to come by, but it seemed likely their instincts were right. The scientist and his laboratory would almost certainly be found in the fortress-like castle at the entrance to Polonezköy – inevitably the hardest part of the camp for them to breach. Built several hundred years ago, it looked as strong and impenetrable as ever. The towering building appeared, from this angle anyway, to be a motley collection of disparate parts: square towers with spires butted up against circular towers which stretched up into the dark sky. Endless grey stone walls seemed to wrap around each other like a maze. And yet there had to be a way in. For the castle to play a functioning part in the day to day operation of the concentration camp, there had to be a number of ways in and out.

  ‘Should we split up?’ Harris asked.

  ‘I think it’s better we stick together, until we’re inside at least,’ Barton said quickly.

  The men moved across the courtyard at speed, ducking and swerving to avoid more meandering corpses which, for now, were still gravitating towards the light from the fire. They were soon pressed up against the castle wall. Jones looked directly up at the vast keep which towered above him, and froze. ‘Not sure if I can do this, sir...’ he stammered.

  ‘It’s all right to be afraid,’ Wilkins told him. ‘Between you and me, though, I’d rather be inside with you men for company than left out here on my own, wouldn’t you?’ He dragged Jones on with him without giving him a chance to renege.

  They found a set of steps which sunk down into the ground and ended at a solid-looking door. Wilkins cautiously edged down and listened, but he could hear nothing. He tried the door and found that it opened easily. Was no door left locked in this bizarre place, he wondered? He peered inside – seeing nothing initially in the pitch-black – and waited for some kind of response.

  ‘Smells bad,’ Jones said from close behind.

  Wilkins ducked his head into the doorway and gave out a most un-gentlemanly wolf whistle which was amplified by the acoustics of the ancient building.

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but what the hell are you doing?’ Barton asked.

  Wilkins didn’t have chance to respond, because his call soon had the desired effect. He was immediately aware of movement inside the keep, and he moved out of the way quickly as a surge of dead bodies began to emerge. He found himself trapped at the bottom of the steps by an unexpected (and still growing) number of them and he began hitting out and slashing at them with his knife. Harris came to his rescue, leaning down and yanking him up to safely, a hand under each of his shoulders. He continued to kick out, catching one or two of them, but he needn’t have worried because Jones and Barton were already on the case. The advancing corpses seemed unusually dumb and lumbering, perhaps confused by the sudden escape and the shift from inside to outside. Between them they picked seven of them off with the bayonets affixed to the ends of their rifles, leaving them in an unruly heap at the bottom of the few stone steps.

  Once they were dealt with, the chaotic attack was over.

  Wilkins brushed himself down. The men were relatively safe here, hidden by the slope of the ground and a couple more wooden huts. He could see constant movement in the courtyard, but crucially for now, the dead couldn’t see him. Regaining his composure after the sudden exertion of the last few minutes, he took a step forward to examine the corpses they’d just felled. ‘Shine a torch down here,’ he ordered, and Jones obliged. ‘All German,’ Wilkins announced. They were all wearing Nazi uniforms and had real weight and bulk to their bodies. A stark contrast with what they’d seen of the prisoner population of the camp so far; cruelly starved and forced to work until their bodies resembled skeletons held together with the merest amount of flesh and sinew.

  ‘There’s something different about these,’ Barton said, and he hefted one of the corpses to the top of the steps and dumped it on the ground. Jones nearly emptied his stomach when he shone his light into the foul thing’s repulsive face. It was far more decayed than any of the other corpses they’d seen since reaching the camp. The skin was heavily discoloured. Wilkins forced himself to get closer to the repugnant aberration. He took its gloved right hand in his and began to bend and flex the arm repeatedly.

  ‘Pardon me, Lieutenant,’ Harris said, ‘but what in heaven’s name are you doing?’

  Wilkins said nothing for a few moments longer, his face a picture of concentration. He took off one of his own fingerless gloves and unbuttoned the dead Nazi’s heavily stained tunic and shirt. He rested his hand on its pallid skin and agitated it slightly. When he was ready, he answered. ‘I’m trying to date the bodies.’

  ‘Date the bodies,’ Jones said to the other two. ‘What’s he on about?’

  Wilkins looked up at him disapprovingly. ‘If you’d do me the honour of keeping quiet for a short while longer, I’ll explain.’

  He held open the Nazi’s left eye, then prodded its distended belly.

  ‘Come on, sir, I think that’s enough...’ Barton protested.

  Wilkins wiped his hands and stood up. ‘It’s quite simple really, but important. I’ve no doubt you’ve all seen more than your fair share of death since this infernal war began. I’ve just carried out a few simple tests I’ve picked up along the way to try and ascertain when a person died. The sclera over the eye, the amount of movement in the joints...’

  ‘Rigor mortis?’ Harris suggested.

  ‘That’s right. The condition typically manifests itself shortly after death, then relaxes again approximately a day later. Prodding the belly and inspecting the extremities allows me to estimate the gas content of the gut – the longer a person’s body has been decaying, the greater the volume of gas produced. Similarly, swollen joints and buttocks can indicate the presence of pools of blood where the corpse has remained in one position for an extended period of time.’

  ‘And rubbing the chest?’ Barton asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

  ‘As the body decays and undergoes such dramatic internal changes, so the skin can loosen. I was checking for slippage.’

  ‘So how long have these been dead? And pardon me, Lieutenant, but why in heaven’s name does it matter?’

  ‘In answer to your first question, I estimate between three and five days. And with regard to your second point, knowing how long these guards have been dead gives us the best indication we can get as to what has happened here. We know that the prisoners out here are dead, but what about those who were within the castle walls? Did they die first? I have to admit, I believe this place is filled with nothing but death in every conceivable corner. Yet, somewhere in that cesspit of decay, I also bel
ieve we might find the secret that will put an end to this nightmare.’

  No more talk. Time for action.

  Wilkins snapped a branch from a dead tree (is nothing left alive here? he wondered) and wrapped a jacket from one of the Nazi corpses around it. He poured lighter fuel over the material then set it ablaze.

  The four soldiers ducked down through the low stone doorway and disappeared into the gloom.

  23

  INSIDE THE CASTLE

  The ancient building was silent, but not quite quiet enough for the soldiers’ liking. They had uncovered a complex labyrinth of tunnels beneath the heart of the castle, and despite their best efforts to pass through the place unnoticed, the noise their every move made seemed to be amplified beyond all proportion. Their boots echoed off the walls, every step like a gunshot, and even the sounds of their breathing seemed to fill the air with noise. Wilkins took the lead carrying the flaming torch while Harris brought up the rear. The passages they moved along were claustrophobic and tight: dark grey walls, low curved ceiling, dripping damp, a layer of slurry underfoot.

  It wasn’t long before they were under attack again.

  A sudden sharp right turn led to another long corridor which seemed to stretch the entire length of the castle. It was so long that the light from Wilkins’ torch barely reached halfway, and it was only when the flickering shadows began to move towards them that the British soldiers realised more of the enemy were close at hand. Three more Nazi corpses came at them suddenly as if they’d been woken from hibernation by the unannounced arrival of the Brits. Their faces, withered and drawn into furious expressions of anger and hatred, appeared infinitely more hideous in the wavering light. Barton, now unfazed and increasingly confident when facing the dead, carefully pushed past Wilkins and dealt with all three of the dead Germans in quick succession. He thrust his bayonet through the left eye of the nearest at the same time as dragging the second one down then planting his boot between its shoulder blades. He slid the first creature off his blade, then drove the sharp point up through the chin of the next into what remained of its putrefying brain. Barton finally returned his attention to the ghoul at his feet which he spiked angrily through the back of the head with far more aggression than was necessary.

  ‘You looked as if you almost enjoyed that,’ Harris said from the rear.

  ‘I did,’ Barton replied. ‘These things are miserably weak—’

  ‘—yet incredibly dangerous,’ Wilkins warned, ‘and we’d all do well to remember that. One scratch is all it might take to spread the condition. One bite. Remember, that’s what did it for Lieutenant Henshaw.’

  And the men became silent at the memory of their recently fallen officer.

  ‘Keep moving,’ Jones said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Let’s get this done and get home.’

  Wilkins checked his watch. Under four hours to go.

  They’d realised what they were likely to find down here long before they reached it. The castle keep. Most of the dungeon-like cells were being used for storage (and they took the welcome opportunity to arm themselves when it presented itself), yet other rooms clearly had a purpose more akin to their originally intended use. ‘No sense locking people up in here,’ Barton had observed. ‘Not when this whole bloody place is a prison.’

  They’d thought nothing of his words until they’d reached the third cell along. Each of these confined chambers was claustrophobically small. The rough walls, hewn from centuries-old rock, were thicker than a man’s arm and the portcullis-like iron doors appeared virtually impenetrable.

  Thankfully.

  In the third cell was a cadaver so badly decayed that, at first sight, the men had difficulty recognising it as being human. It was naked, and its discoloured flesh was covered in a layer of dried blood, glistening decay and other, less obvious grime. The floor was awash with seepage and putrescent dribbles. The creature threw itself at the railings when the men neared, and though it was initially held back by shackles and chains, the force with which it lunged was such that one arm was wrenched out of its socket. The stump twitched furiously. ‘What happened to it?’ Jones asked. The smell here was suffocating, like nothing he’d ever endured before.

  Harris used the butt of his rifle to shove the monstrous thing back, and it tripped over what was left of its own feet, ending up in the far corner of the cell, thrashing furiously in its own mire but quite unable to pick itself back up and come at the men again.

  Wilkins braved the stench and the creature’s fury to get closer. He raised the torch to get a better view, though at the back of his mind was the concern that had the gases generated as a result of this thing’s decomposition not yet fully dissipated, he might ignite an explosive cloud of noxious odour. He covered his mouth and nose and peered into the gloom, only stepping back when he could stand to see no more. ‘I believe this must be one of the very first of them. I presume this is all that remains of one of the scientists’ earliest experiments.’

  ‘Why keep it locked up?’ Barton asked. ‘Why not just get rid of it?’

  ‘I assume they were studying it. By keeping it isolated down here, away from everyone else, they might have been hoping to observe its behaviour and condition.’

  ‘You think it did all this to itself?’

  ‘Almost certainly. The natural process of decay is responsible for much of what you can see here, but the effects have been magnified by the inherent fury of the beast. Remember, these things are only able to reason at the most basic of levels. They are only interested in fighting. Self-preservation is an unknown concept to them. That’s if their brains are even capable of considering concepts.’

  ‘You’ve lost me again,’ Barton said. ‘Pardon me, Lieutenant Wilkins, but you have a frustrating habit of using a hundred words where one or two would probably do.’

  ‘He’s saying that because this thing was locked away, it tore itself apart,’ Harris explained.

  ‘Then that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ asked Jones. ‘Won’t they all end up like this then? Or they’ll all rot down to nothing at least.’

  ‘That may be so,’ Wilkins said, ‘but it’ll take time. And as long as they’re left to their own devices out there, they’ll continue to kill and to multiply. It makes them even more of a threat, not less. Can’t you see, they’ll stop at nothing to spread this infernal condition around the globe. Nothing!’

  The group moved on, leaving the furious inhuman beast eviscerating itself on the cold stone floor of its cell.

  Steps. Another heavy wooden door.

  ‘Thank the lord,’ Wilkins said under his breath, and he allowed himself to lower the flaming torch at last. His arm ached with the effort of keeping it aloft, but he hadn’t dared not use it. The corridors under the castle were like a maze. It wouldn’t have taken much for them to lose all sense of direction and keep going around in circles.

  Harris went to start climbing, but Wilkins stopped him. ‘Come on, sir, the sooner we get on with this the better. I can’t stand all this waiting around. If there’s going to be a fight, then let’s get fighting and let’s get home. All this talk of deadly germs and super-weapons is just making matters worse.’

  ‘We need to keep our wits about us,’ Wilkins warned. ‘If there are any Nazis left in this building – dead or alive – they’ll be gunning for us. We can be assured of a pretty grim welcome, whoever and whatever we find up those stairs.’

  He was right, of course, and no one argued. Wilkins climbed to the top of the stairs and readied himself. He glanced across at Harris who nodded to show that he was ready, then opened the door.

  Both men recoiled when a shocking number of large brown and black rats scurried through the suddenly open doorway and flooded down the stairs, a tidal wave of dirty fur and yellowed teeth. At the bottom of the steps, Jones’ nerve almost broke. He aimed his weapon into the undulating mass crawling hurriedly over and around his boots. ‘Hold your fire,’ Wilkins ordered. Jones’ finger tightened on the trigger,
but he didn’t shoot.

  ‘I hate rats,’ he grumbled, watching them surge down the corridor, looking like a bizarrely undulating carpet. Squeaks of fear and spiny, lashing tails.

  ‘They’re clearly not interested in us, are they?’ Wilkins said. ‘They’re leaving the proverbial sinking ship.’

  Barton took hold of Jones’ collar and turned the young soldier to face him. ‘Look at me, Jones.’

  ‘Get off.’

  ‘Not until you calm yourself down, lad. The rats are the least of our problems. You need to forget about them and focus on whatever it is they’re running away from.’

  Eventually the steps became clear, and Wilkins and Harris went through the door into the main part of the castle. They were surprised to find that there was some illumination here. Electric lamps which glowed dull yellow were strung along the wall like fading Christmas lanterns. Wilkins extinguished the torch and tossed it aside. He felt infinitely better carrying a pistol in one hand and his trusty knife in the other. Holding the flame had hampered his ability to defend and attack.

  Although still uncomfortably quiet, after the cramped confines of the level below-ground, the increased space up here felt strangely liberating. No more stooping. The ceilings were high. No longer enclosed by unending solid walls on either side. Space to move. Options. And yet, despite its size, the whole place felt foetid and filthy. There were marks and smears everywhere they looked. Bloody handprints. Drag marks. Drips and pools of crimson gore.

  They moved as a pack along the wide corridor, covering all angles between them. The first doorway they came across led into a large kitchen, and they entered to briefly stop and take stock. Food had been left half-prepared and unattended on counters and stoves. There were several large cooking pots, the unidentifiable contents of which had been baked solid. The flesh of a pig on a spit was black and hardened. Wilkins checked the enormous oven at the centre of the kitchen. ‘No residual heat,’ he said. ‘This oven’s as cold as this poor unfortunate soul.’ He nodded at the body of a woman slumped in a corner of the room. She wore a simple grey pinafore dress which was heavily stained with blood from what was left of her head. It also covered much of the wall behind her. She appeared to have been shot at extraordinarily close range, and Wilkins wondered if she’d perhaps done this to herself to escape whatever nightmare had unfolded around her.