By the Blood of Heroes

by Joseph Nassise

  The kaiser was nodding his head with enthusiasm. “With France in our control, it should be an easy matter to get the British to sue for peace. At that point we can turn our attention back to the east and deal with Russia once and for all!”

  Richthofen looked away, lest his expression reveal how he was truly feeling. The notion that they could seize Paris inside of four months was absurd, given what they were working with. The tank regiments were a disaster; they kept getting bogged down in the mud of the front, becoming another set of targets for the Allied artillery men to practice upon. Never mind that another twenty-five battalions of Tottensoldat wouldn’t be able to smash through the defenses along the Somme. They had been dug in there for more than five years now, and it would take more than barely controlled zombie troops to break that line.

  His trip here had been a waste, he realized. The kaiser’s action in turning over control of the Imperial Army to these two buffoons, the same two buffoons who had been unable to conquer Russia in the early phase of the war, was just another example of how badly the empire needed new hands on the tiller. Now, more than ever, it was clear that he needed to act, and act soon, in order to save the empire from a slow death.

  Outwardly he congratulated the other three on their foresight and forward thinking, pledging the support of his air corps to make the offensive a resounding success, but inwardly he seethed, impatient with the need to act before it was too late. It was that impatience that finally forced him to bid good-bye to the others and slip back out of the room before he said or did something he would later have cause to regret.

  To get his mind off the imbeciles now running the war, Richthofen decided to make the short flight over to Verdun and drop in on Eisenberg. The good doctor was due to deliver his latest report on the Geheime Volks project in another week, and Richthofen decided that keeping him from getting too comfortable was worth the extra trouble. It was imperative that Eisenberg remember just who was in charge of the whole endeavor, and an unexpected visit from his patron would go a long way in establishing the pecking order. That, in turn, would add to Richthofen’s satisfaction with the situation.

  The winds were fair and the flight uneventful. Richthofen didn’t bother circling the airfield, as was his usual style, but came in directly for a landing to limit the amount of warning Eisenberg would have regarding his arrival.

  It did little good. Apparently Eisenberg’s people were more on the ball than expected. By the time Richthofen had taxied to the side of the field that served as the compound’s takeoff and landing zone, the doctor himself was waiting patiently in front of his staff car, ready to ferry his patron back to the comfort of his personal residence. Eisenberg was a chubby little man was a fat face and a tendency to sweat, but he was a literal genius when it came to these kinds of programs.

  “Herr Richthofen! A pleasure to see you!”

  Richthofen ignored him, walking right past to climb into the backseat of the staff car.

  Always good to keep him on the defensive, he thought.

  Eisenberg slid in beside him. The driver must have been briefed previously, for he started the vehicle and headed for their destination without having to be told. A few minutes after landing, the two men were ensconced in Eisenberg’s private study.

  “How can I help you today, Herr Richthofen?”

  “Let’s start with an update on the T-Leiche enhancements.”

  Eisenberg took a moment to gather his thoughts. “A new round of testing utilizing batch 3472 was initiated at Stalag 108 last night. I suspect that this will be the most successful variant yet, but it will be a few days before we will know for sure.”

  “And the others?”

  “Testing on batch 3419 continues at Stalag 113. The initial success rate was startling, as you know, and we nicknamed the breed the Geheime Volks, the secret people, in order to differentiate them from the Totenarbeitskraft and Tottensoldat breeding programs.”

  Richthofen nodded to show he was following along, but Eisenberg wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He’d been the one to suggest the names for those first breeds, after all. The death workers and the death soldiers had been named for precisely the tasks they’d been developed to perform.

  “Surprisingly,” the doctor said, “we’re noticing an increase in the overall intelligence of the G.V. who survive the transformation process. They are able to carry out simple commands and make basic decisions when obstacles are placed in their path, which is similar to the results we’ve been getting with the Tottensoldat breed for the last few months now.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Richthofen said, and it was. The Tottensoldat program was designed to make the soldiers’ battlefield resurrections more useful, the idea being that if a stronger sense of identity and independent function could be maintained in the undead following their revival, they would be easier to control and therefore more adaptable to different situations on the front line. If the same could be done in the Geheime Volks program, which used living subjects, the doctor and his assistants would be one step closer to ending this war, with the empire fully in control of all of Europe.

  And one step closer to having the right man sitting on the Iron Throne as well, Richthofen thought.

  But Eisenberg wasn’t finished.

  “It is encouraging, yes, but it is offset by the recent discovery that this particular breed has a tendency to grow more aggressive as time passes. We’re not sure what’s causing it at the moment, but we’re looking into it. Our first line of thought was that . . .”

  Richthofen let the doctor prattle on for several minutes about chemical structures, the characteristics of gaseous bodies, and the rate at which gases were absorbed into the human form through the pores of the skin before he decided he’d heard enough and prompted the doctor to move to the next topic of discussion.

  “Where are we on the new breed of hounds?” Richthofen asked.

  The Tod Hunde, or Death Hounds, were another result of the experiments that Dr. Eisenberg was attempting. Recognizing that the composition of the gas could be used to highlight certain features and capabilities while downplaying others, the doctor had worked hard to heighten the creatures’ olfactory powers while limiting their free will and intelligence quotient. The result, a strange batch of creatures with limited humanity but incredibly efficient tracking abilities, had shown a good degree of promise, so much so that Richthofen recently authorized their use outside the camp on a limited basis. Two “packs” had been assigned to the teams searching for Freeman’s remains.

  “The latest enhancements have also increased the creatures’ aggressive nature, making them more difficult to control, but I think we can filter that back out again in the next experiment.”

  “Excellent,” Richthofen replied, honestly pleased with the development. A little aggressiveness might even make the creatures usable on the front line, so he didn’t necessarily see that as a bad thing.

  He changed focus again, moving to a new subject, one the good doctor might find less comfortable, just to keep him on his toes.

  “What is this I hear about a group of test subjects escaping from Stalag 113?”

  Eisenberg’s eyes widened and Richthofen knew the doctor had not been aware that the information about the escapees had leaked, never mind that it had made its way back to Richthofen himself.

  “Uh . . . um . . . yes, the escape,” the doctor replied. “I was going to fill you in on the details of that in my report to you next week.”

  Richthofen remained silent.

  “A transport vehicle broke down shortly after leaving the compound. The newly altered soldiers it was carrying were not secured properly and they managed to overpower the guards and escape. The search teams are trying to locate them as we speak.”

  Richthofen nodded. “Good. I want it made clear to the rest of the staff that such poor attention to detail will not be tolerated. When the escapees are rounded up, feed the guards to them in front of the other staff, so the
y understand the consequences of failure.”

  The doctor paled but nodded in agreement.

  One of Eisenberg’s young pages burst into the room at that point, a piece of paper held tightly in his hand.

  “Please excuse me, Major,” Eisenberg said, as he motioned the page over to him. The doctor took the note, glanced at it, and then passed it across to Richthofen.

  “My apologies. It seems the message is for you, Herr Richthofen.”

  It was a telegram from his adjutant, Corporal Adler, and it contained a surprising revelation.

  Freeman alive. Stop. Being held at Stalag 113. Stop. Request instructions. Stop. Adler.

  If Richthofen’s heart hadn’t already been a shriveled lump of dead tissue, it would have skipped a beat in his chest. He finally understood what it was that his instincts had been trying to tell him the last several days; Freeman had survived the crash!

  Possibilities flooded through his mind in rapid-fire sequence. Richthofen knew that Freeman was more than just the Americans’ top ace. He’d discovered the truth while reading an intelligence dispatch that he’d intercepted, a dispatch intended for the kaiser. In the right hands, Freeman’s unique relationship to the head of the American political system could be used to gain incredible leverage, which was one reason Richthofen had chosen to keep the information to himself. He fiercely believed that the good of the empire would best be served by having someone other than Kaiser Wilhelm sitting on the Iron Throne, someone who was no longer hampered by the emotions and faulty reasoning that plagued mankind as a species.

  And if that individual had Freeman in his actual control . . .

  Richthofen turned the message slip over and quickly wrote on the back. Handing it to Eisenberg’s aide, he said, “Send this to Corporal Adler at once.”

  As the aide scurried off, Richthofen turned to Eisenberg and said, “I have a special task for you, Docktor . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  STALAG 113

  They left him in the pit overnight, with only the dead for company. Freeman slept with his back against the wall and his hand on a sharpened piece of bone, reassured by the simple knowledge that he had something with which to defend himself.

  As the morning light filtered down from above he expected the guards to come check on him, but as the hours passed and no one came, he began to suspect that they wouldn’t do so until the next troublemaker needed punishing. Which could be ten minutes or ten days from now.

  Not good.

  After several days without adequate medical care, his leg was inflamed and aching horribly. If it hadn’t been infected before he’d been dropped into the pit and forced to roll around in the remains of previous victims while fighting off a starving shambler, he had little doubt that it was now. At this rate he wouldn’t live out the week.

  First things first, he reminded himself. You’ve got to get out of this pit.

  He found a section of the wall where there weren’t any corpses stacked and moved in, hoping to pick out a route he could use to climb to the top. The wall glistened, and when he touched it, he discovered that it had been covered with some kind of a slick substance—animal or human fat perhaps?—higher than he could reach. The grease made it impossible to find a handhold.

  When that didn’t work, he moved over to where a stack of bodies reached halfway up the wall and began to clamber up them, hoping that by doing so he could get himself high enough that he was above the grease line. The bodies slipped and rolled beneath his feet, making his position more precarious the higher he climbed. His injured leg wasn’t helping matters either.

  He had just about reached the top of the stack when his foot burst through the rib cage of the corpse beneath him, causing him to tip forward unexpectedly. The sudden movement caused the corpse to slide in the opposite direction, sending the entire stack of bodies tumbling downward to the floor and burying Freeman beneath them.

  It took him nearly a half hour to dig himself free, leaving him covered from head to foot in bits of rotting flesh and bodily fluids. Exhausted from his ordeal and weak from hunger and thirst, Freeman dragged himself over to a clear space against the side of the pit and slumped down against the wall, determined to husband what was left of his strength.

  He must have dozed, for he awoke to the sound of the metal plate being dragged to the side above his head. Sunlight flooded into the pit as he climbed to his feet and moved into the center of the space so he could see. Squinting up against the glare, Freeman saw four guards stationed around the hole, looking down at him in surprise.

  Didn’t think I’d still be here, did you, you bastards?

  His satisfaction was short-lived, however. One of the guards pointed his Mauser down into the pit and barked something at him in German. Although Freeman didn’t speak the language, the motions that went along with the command made it clear that they wanted him to back up. When he did, one of the guards lowered a ladder into the hole and then sent two of the others in after him.

  Freeman braced himself for another beating and was therefore surprised when he realized the guards were unarmed. He watched them warily approach and nearly fell over in shock when they offered, with hand gestures, to help him over to the ladder.

  What the hell?

  He shrugged off their assistance and hobbled his way over to the ladder. Trap or not, he wasn’t going to pass on the possibility of getting out of this hellhole, and he’d do it under his own power, thank you very much. But the task proved too much for his energy-sapped body, and he had to resort to letting them guide him along. It was either that or fall off the ladder back into the muck of the pit.

  There was a lorry waiting near the hole, and the guards helped him over to it when he reached the surface. From there it was a short drive over to the infirmary, where a short, elderly gentleman and two male nurses were waiting for him. The man introduced himself as Dr. Taschner. Even better, he spoke passable English.

  “Sit, please, Major,” he said, pointing at the wheeled chair he had waiting.

  “Someone want to tell me what this is all about first?” he asked. He had visions of being strapped to an operating table and carved into little pieces for the glory of the empire.

  “I couldn’t honestly tell you, Major. All I know is that I’ve been ordered to clean you up, and that includes treating your leg. Which, from the smell of it, is probably not a moment too soon. Another day or two and we’d most likely have had to amputate.”

  Having had it pointed out to him, Freeman was suddenly aware of the rotting meat smell that was wafting off his injured leg and clothing.

  They wheeled him into a communal shower, cut the clothes from his body, and then thoroughly washed him down. The nurses were well trained and extremely efficient; Freeman eventually stopped trying to help and just let them take over. He screamed several times when they were forced to clean the exterior of his wound, but they left the job of routing out the infection and the pus it had generated to Dr. Taschner.

  When they were finished, they sat him naked in the chair and wheeled him into the examination room where the doctor was waiting.

  “Better, Major?”

  Freeman nodded, still wary but feeling better about the situation as the minutes ticked past.

  Taschner indicated the exam table beside him with an extended hand. “I need to look at that wound on your leg,” he said.

  Freeman let them help him up onto the exam table. He lay down flat on his back at Dr. Taschner’s suggestion.

  That’s when they threw the leather straps over his arms, legs, and chest, six in all, cinching them tight before he even knew what was happening.

  “Hey!” he yelled, fear in his voice for the first time since arriving at the camp. There was something about being strapped down, helpless, at your enemies’ mercy . . .

  “Relax, Major,” Taschner said. “I assure you again, I mean no harm. Cleaning a wound in that condition is going to hurt, a lot, and I’m afraid I haven’t been authorized to use a
ny of our limited supply of morphine or ether to numb your pain. The straps are there for your protection, nothing else.”

  Freeman was only slightly mollified by the explanation, but at this point there was nothing he could do. Struggling against his bonds got him exactly nowhere; he was trussed up tighter than a Christmas goose.

  The doctor stepped out of view for a moment and returned carrying a cloth-covered tray. He set the tray down, picked a scalpel up off it, and said to Freeman, “As I said, this is going to hurt.”

  Then, without hesitating, the doctor used the scalpel to slice open the partially healed wound on Freeman’s leg.

  Freeman screamed, a long wailing cry that matched the white-hot explosion of pain that went off in his mind. Amazingly, he didn’t pass out.

  A few seconds later he wished he had, however, as he caught sight of the gallon-sized glass jar one of the nurses carried into the room and the wormlike creatures it contained. At nearly an inch in diameter, their pale blue-gray bodies twisted and churned about one another like a nest of maggots gone wild with abandon.

  “Are you familiar with the African rotworm, Major?” Taschner asked. “Marvelous creatures. They’ll clean the wound and allow it to heal properly, something you’ve been unable to get it to do on your own, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Keep those things away from me, Doc,” he said, but of course the doctor ignored him.

  The nurse held the jar and waited patiently as the doctor unscrewed the lid and then reached inside with a pair of long-nosed forceps. He caught one of the wriggling things with the forceps and lifted it out of the jar.

  “I’m warning you! Keep that fucking thing away from me!” Freeman screamed.

  Dr. Taschner gave him a sympathetic glance and then placed the worm on Freeman’s calf about two inches away from the open wound.