“Move out, Sergeant,” he said, mounting his horse.
“Platoon! Forward!” The men moved past him then, some of them with torches at the ready, all with the stone-cold faces of those who’d seen horrible evil and lived to tell the tale. He nudged his horse into a slow trot.
A short time later, they entered the town’s center and found a mound of burned corpses. Even his now-hardened soldiers gagged slightly.
“They burned them, at the end,” said Walker, at the captain’s side. “They knew more than we did, then.”
The men formed small four- and five-man squads under the direction of leaders hand-picked by the sergeant and captain. Trace had learned that these smaller units could more effectively search and clear homes, barns and other structures without getting in each other’s way or not having enough backup. He intended to recommend the unit structure to his superiors when he returned to Fort Vancouver.
If I return, he thought. If any of us do.
There was a shout and scuffling from the saloon on the other side of the street, and two soldiers appeared, dragging a struggling bundle of rags and dirt between them. Eventually, the bundle resolved itself into a small child, filthy and nearly feral, as judged by the growls and shrieks it was giving off.
“Found him in the basement of the saloon, sir,” said Hotchkins. “Nearly took my hand off with this when I reached for him. Almost as big as he is!” The soldier produced a grimy Bowie knife, grinning.
“Turn him loose, Private. We’re not after him.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that, sir,” said Walker. “He doesn’t look all that safe to me.”
“Hmmm, maybe you’re right. Hotchkins, shackle him and put him in the wagon for now. We’ll take him to Fort Vancouver. If he calms down some along the way, we can think about taking off those shackles.”
The boy stopped struggling and looked up at the captain from under his bangs, a glint of intelligence in his eyes.
So, not feral after all. Just scared. And who can blame him?
Another soldier trotted up. “All set, Captain.”
“Find any more of them?”
“Only one, sir. We took care of it. Locked it in the house.”
“Very well. Burn it.”
The soldier nodded, and as Hotchkins shackled the boy and chained him to the wagon, they watched as the small town’s buildings began to burn.
Trace glanced at the boy but saw no emotion of any kind reflected in his expression. The kid just watched the flames consume what had been his hometown, without so much as a tear, hardly even blinking.
I hope we can get him back, he thought. And I hope none of us end up that way.
They left the town shortly, the beams of the homes and other buildings still smoldering.
Captain Trace looked back, just once, as they headed out on the main trail for Fort Vancouver, just under a day’s ride away.
I hope we got them all.
Washington Territory, Four months later
“I have some more requisition forms for you, Major,” said Trace’s new secretary as she came into his office. “Colonel says he’d like these right quick, now.”
Trace sighed and motioned to the stack on the corner of his desk. “Just put them with the others, please, Marjorie. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Major.” She placed the documents on the stack, then stood still without leaving.
He sighed again. “Marjorie, do you think I’m being punished?”
For a very brief moment, she appeared surprised. “Punished? No, sir. If I may say so, you received a promotion, did you not?”
Trace grunted and thought back to the debriefing he’d received from his superiors after ‘The Winter Incident,’ as the Army was referring to it.
Somehow, the choice between a desk job and a gag order and being shot for treason doesn’t feel like a promotion, he thought, absently rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.
In some ways, he envied the men he had commanded, now dispersed amongst the other units stationed at Fort Vancouver. At least they’re still doing something other than paperwork.
He noticed his secretary was still standing there, patiently waiting. “What is it, Marjorie?”
“There’s a man here to see you, Major. Wouldn’t tell me his name or business, just that it was urgent that he speak with you. He looks the dangerous sort, if I may, sir.”
“Hmmm, very well. Send him in.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, leaving and closing the door behind her.
Moments later, there was a knock.
“Come in,” said Trace.
A tall, well-built man clad all in black wool entered his office. How the man could wear black wool in this unseasonable heat was a mystery, Trace thought as he stood up and extended a hand. “Major William Trace, at your service. My secretary says you’re here about a matter of some urgency but wouldn’t tell her what it was. I must admit that I am most intrigued.”
They shook hands, and Trace indicated the chair opposite his own as he sat. His secretary poked her head in the door, and he smiled. “Tea, please, Marjorie.”
The tall man sat, paying no attention whatsoever to the secretary, though he did perk up at the mention of tea.
“So, what can I do for you, Mr...”
“Smith. John Smith,” said the man, turning his hat slowly between his hands.
“Ah, Mr. Smith. What can I do for you?”
The man stayed silent a moment longer, and Trace was sure he was studying the room out of the corner of his eyes, never letting his glance fall too long on any one spot or item.
Curious, he thought. Just what is this man about?
“It’s not me you can do something for, Major Trace, but rather your country and your president.”
Trace was careful to hide his surprise. “Oh?”
“Indeed,” said the man, pulling a sealed envelope from his coat and placing it on the edge of the desk. “I was instructed by the president himself to give this only to the man who could answer two very particular questions.”
“And what questions are those, sir?”
“What was found in Bleaker Village and brought to Fort Vancouver last year? And, more importantly, what is its status?”
Trace went cold, sitting up straight in his chair and placing his left hand on his desk, the other surreptitiously delving into a slightly-open drawer and removing the heavy object within, placing it on his lap.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Smith.”
Smith narrowed his eyes. “You are Major William Trace, of Kentucky, are you not? Formerly married to Antoinette Gallaix of Fairfax, Virginia?”
Who is this man who knows so much of me?
“I am.”
“Then answer the questions that only you can.”
Trace swallowed hard. He knows. Somehow, he knows. He eased the hammer back on the pistol in his lap, covering the soft click with a cough.
“Who are you, sir, to ask me those questions? I could have you thrown from my office into the street.” Though he tried, Trace couldn’t keep the slight quaver of fear from his voice.
Smith smiled, and Trace hoped to God he never saw another smile like that one again. It was as though a six-foot python had grinned. If anything, it made it absolutely clear how dangerous the man was.
“I suppose a gesture of proof is in order; I would’ve expected no less from a man of your… qualifications,” Smith said, reaching into his vest pocket. There was a flash of silver, and a five-pointed star with rounded tips landed on his desk. Only one government agency had that badge.
“I suppose I should call you Agent Smith, then?” asked Trace.
“Mister is fine, Major. Neither the Secret Service nor I were ever here,” said the man as he retrieved the badge. “Now, if you please, answer the question.”
Trace relaxed somewhat and let go the breath he’d been holding and released the hammer on the gun in his lap. “A boy. We brought back a boy.”
“And where is he now?”
“He was placed with Mrs. Farnsworth of Vancouver. She lost her family to the Indians. I’m given to understand that he’s doing well, though having some trouble adjusting.”
Mr. Smith nodded. “Very well. Then this is yours.” He slid the envelope across the desk.
Trace stood, laying the pistol on the desk and taking the envelope. For his part, the agent didn’t bat an eye at the handgun as he also stood.
“Good day, Colonel.”
“It’s ‘Major,’” Trace said, but the man left without another word. Trace stared after him. Well, he’s not a military man. An honest enough mistake, I suppose.
Trembling with anticipation, he drew his letter opener and sliced open the envelope, drawing out the paper within just as Marjorie came in with a tray of tea and crackers. She set it down on his desk as he read.
Major William Trace,
You are hereby promoted to the rank of colonel, effective immediately, and directed to create a special investigative detachment for the United States Army: Unit 73. You are hereby sworn to utmost secrecy, and ordered never to reveal the nature of your mission.
Trace fell back into his chair, jarring the teapot and spilling tea. As Marjorie fussed at him, he continued to read. He barely noticed as she tsked at him and left the room.
The sole purpose of this new unit shall be to investigate the cause, function, and most effective eradication measures for the creatures you encountered this past winter. Your detachment will initially consist of the men under your command during that mission. They have been ordered to report to you by separate communication.
The tea grew cold, but Trace was beyond concern for such trivial matters now. He finished the letter and then looked out of his window at the beautiful spring day, deep in thought.
Some time later, there was a knock at the door, and Marjorie entered with several of the men who had followed him during the winter mission, including Sergeant Walker. They saluted.
“Reporting as ordered, Colonel, sir,” said Walker.
Trace returned their salute. “Thank you, Marjorie,” he said. “That will be all, and see that we’re not disturbed, please.”
As the door shut behind her, Trace turned to his assembled men, his face grave. “Let me tell you about Unit 73...”
The Coldest Winter
Belzec Auxiliary Extermination Camp
Poland, 1942
Jack crouched in the low scrub brush between the trees and peered through his binoculars at the wire mesh of the fence, two hundred yards beyond the treeline. Previously, he had felt disgust when seeing the prisoners held at this sub-camp of Belzec, but now… now he just felt pity, and wanted to help them.
“Not that they would even know if I did,” he said.
“What was that, sir?” asked Lev, one of his corporals.
Captain Jack Randall realized that he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing, kid.”
The young corporal merely grunted in response, and Jack eyed the camp laid out in the forest before them. He motioned for the rest of the team to move forward. The men glided through the trees, silently taking up their positions to either side. Randall took pride in the stealth of his men. No rattles from loose equipment, no reflections glinting off an uncovered iron sight, and no twigs broken beneath a careless step.
You’d hear a mouse fart before you’d hear my guys, he thought. Well done, fellas. Now, if I could just figure out what to do here.
His orders hadn’t really been too clear about the prisoners, but he had a feeling he knew what the colonel had been trying to say, without actually coming out with it. Fact is, there was only one thing he could do here, and everyone knew it. And, of course, that was the one thing he’d been rather pointedly not ordered to do. What a mess, he thought.
The men waited, cold and shivering in the Polish winter. As he looked across the cleared space between their position and the wire, he realized just what the war had done to him. He thought back on the carnage and destruction he’d not only witnessed but also personally wrought; families wrenched apart, children dead from stray bullets, and whole cities lying in ashes, all because they made convenient stopping points for one army or another. He’d been changed forever; even the literal dead walking around in their pens a short run away had no impact on him now.
“It’s not right, Cap’n,” said Lev. “We should help these people.”
“Really, Mr. Grossman?” retorted Randall. “And how, exactly, would you suggest we do that, Rabbi?”
As the only Jew in the squad, Grossman had picked up the nickname fairly quickly, despite or, perhaps, because of his objections. When Lev didn’t reply, Randall nodded.
“Not even you know what to do with them, do you? It’s not like we can send them home,” he whispered. “Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“I know that, it’s just—”
“Take a good long look at them, corporal. Go on, look!”
Lev turned back to the ‘prisoners,’ and Randall could see him bite back the nausea. They were clearly, definitely dead, and yet… and yet they moved when they heard a noise, or when one of the guards passed by, staying well out of grapple range. Their bodies had been ravaged by unknown chemical cocktails created by Josef Mengele, with their bones standing out from their flesh, their shaven heads bent and slack, the skin peeling and rotting away in places.
Zombies, he thought. Walkers. Five thousand of them, give or take. How can even the Nazis create such monsters?
Suddenly, the noise of a truck engine came through the trees, and Randall signaled for everyone to take cover. His men disappeared into the brush and snow, taking cover where they could, and he dropped flat, keeping an eye on the camp through his binoculars. The area around the camp was fairly flat, all things considered, but they’d managed to find a slight rise in the terrain and he had a pretty good view of the camp. The only way he’d find better would be to climb a tree, and he was way too old for that.
The covered cargo truck stopped at the entry checkpoint, then proceeded inside the camp proper, where it backed up to one end of a low, wooden structure. The building had several exits into the pens, and though the walkers—as the brass called them—obscured some of his vision, he could make out observation windows along the length of it.
The truck driver stepped down from the cab and lit a cigarette, watching with little interest as the two guards in the back of the truck let down the gate and began pushing and pulling people out into the cold. Randall could see some identifying patches on the Jews, some in the familiar dress of the Romani, some in peasant clothing, all scared, stick-thin, and shivering.
The guards were met by others from inside the building, and the new prisoners were herded inside. Randall couldn’t make out what happened next, but whatever it was, it didn’t take long. The doors along the side were opened in sequence, and a new prisoner was shoved out of each one. They began screaming and beating on the glass of the window or door immediately, but it did them little good. The walkers were on them in moments, and Randall turned away, barely holding down his meager Army-ration breakfast.
“What is it, captain?” Lev hissed from a few feet away.
Randall just shook his head, closing his eyes and trying to force the images from his mind, trying not to think, to feel, to imagine. They… they fed them to the walkers. Monsters! He wanted to attack, to wipe them out, both the walkers and the Germans, but age provides wisdom, and he knew it would be pointless. Besides, they weren’t here for that. Their mission was to gather intelligence only, so the brass could kick it up the chain and the boys back in Washington or London or wherever could make the call.
Somedays, it just doesn’t pay to be in Unit 73, he thought. Movement caught his eye as he glanced back at the camp, and he raised the binoculars once more. A tall man in an Schutzstaffel uniform swaggered toward the pen nearest the end of the building, talking to another man, bundled in cold weather gear. Randall would’ve bet money the second man was a sci
entist of some sort, and he recognized the SS officer’s rank as that of an Oberführer, or senior colonel. Clearly, this was the guy running the show at this camp. Randall strained his hearing, but couldn’t make out what they were discussing. Dammit. We need to hear this.
“Alright, Rabbi, you’re up,” he whispered to Lev, who lay nearby. Not only was the corporal the quietest man on the team, he was also the only one who spoke more than passable German, and Randall had a feeling he’d need it. “I need you to tell me what they’re saying, son.”
Lev looked at him, then back at the 200 yards of open ground between the treeline and the camp fence, and back at him, then swore when it was clear Randall meant it. He crawled out of his gear and began inching his way forward across the snowy ground.
At least they don’t have spotlights, thought Randall.
It was a good ten minutes before the Rabbi returned, and only after the camp commander and scientist had gone their separate ways. Lev shivered, wrapping himself in his gear and heavy coat once more, blowing on his hands. Randall looked at him pointedly, and the young man sighed.
“I heard, but you’re not going to like it, captain.”
“No doubt.”
“They’re working on air-dropping them.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though dropping zombies from planes with automatic parachutes was the most normal thing in the world.
“Right. Fall back,” Randall said, signaling to the other men, who were no doubt as cold and tired as he was.
“Fall back, sir? But what about…”
“That’s an order, corporal. They’re not going anywhere.” He sighed. “Moretti is not going to be happy about this.”
Allied Headquarters
London
Moretti wasn’t just unhappy, he was pissed. “Son of a bitch!” He said, stomping around the desk and sending the trash can flying with one swift kick, papers scattering through the air like startled birds. “You’re sure that’s what this SS colonel said?”
The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) Page 2
