For many, however, the path to the right was not the kinder choice.
Hitler had passed laws forbidding the vivisection of animals for any purpose, even medical research. No such laws protected the Poles or the Gypsies or the Jews. Mengele’s approach to his research was less that of a physician and more like a Torquemada, torturing the flesh to yield up secrets yet unimagined. Twins were a particular obsession for him and he managed to acquire nearly 1500 sets between 1943 and ‘44. The majority were sent to Cell Block 10, where they were housed with dwarves and other “exotic” specimens to occupy what came to be known as “Mengele’s Zoo.”
Less than two hundred children survived by the war’s end.
The stories that emerged after the war shocked even the battle-hardened veterans of brutal campaigns and vicious hand-to-hand combat.
Mengele, the survivors testified, would take daily blood samples from the children, sometimes in such great and persistent quantities that they bled to death into his syringes. He would exchange the blood between twins of differing blood types just to measure and record the full range and varieties of suffering that resulted. A mother testified that Mengele tried to starve her newborn baby to death to see how long it could survive without food. The experiment was spoiled after six days when she killed her own child to end its suffering. Multiple eyewitnesses told of the dissection of live infants and major surgeries performed without anesthesia, including a stomach operation on one occasion and the removal of a living patient’s heart upon another.
Presaging the Crystal Gayle hit by nearly forty years, Mengele injected methylene blue dye into the irises of brown-eyed children. Perhaps he hoped to find a way to bring his own, darker coloring closer to the Aryan ideal. The results were predictable: some died, some went blind, all suffered horribly. One of the walls in his office was studded with the human eyeballs of his failures, pinned like a butterfly collection for everyone to see.
Everyone else, that is.
Twins were forcibly separated and placed in isolation cages, then subjected to a variety of stimuli to see how they would react. Others were surgically joined together to artificially create grotesque “Siamese” twins.
Men were castrated without anesthetics, women endured electrical shocks to their genitals for the “scientific” purpose of measuring their endurance. A group of Polish nuns were hideously burned when Mengele experimented with using an X-ray machine for sterilization techniques.
One eyewitness account, near the war’s end, placed him at a particularly horrific event. The allies were approaching and the furnaces were woefully behind in eradicating the evidence of German war crimes. Everything was in short supply including Zyklon-B, ammunition, and petrol. A pit was excavated. Firewood dropped in. Enough gasoline was added to make a good start but the calculations depended upon the wood and then the fatty tissues to sustain the combustion process.
Mengele arrived with a coterie of SS officers on their motorcycles, laughing and joking, before the trucks, ten in all, were backed up to the edge of the pit. As the human cargo was dumped into the heart of the flames, some children actually survived long enough to clamber over the other bodies and climb, screaming, up the sides of their earthen hell. Some of the officers had to take sticks and push them back in until they were overcome by the flames or the smoke from their own charred flesh.
Shortly thereafter, the future “Doctor Pipt,” along with hundreds of guards and medical personnel, slipped away in the night as Soviet troops advanced on Berlin. January 17, 1945.
* * *
I fell three full levels before I caught myself. I just managed to reassert the solidity of my surroundings before plummeting into the solid bedrock beneath Brut Adler and, even then, I had to fight an ongoing sense of disorientation.
I’d suspected from the beginning that “Pipt” was merely an alias, a code name designed to obscure any trail back to the “good” doctor. But even after tangling with demons and vampires and necromancers, I suddenly found myself very unnerved by the thought of one feeble old Nazi.
Well, not just one . . .
But they were still human and still fairly limited in number—thanks to Mengele’s self-experimentation. For now.
The question was how could I throw a monkey wrench in the works while I was having this out-of-my-body experience? I could borrow some flesh and bones, perhaps? And then what? One guy against a fortress full of Nazis? Even if I could find enough plastique in the various weapons lockers, and acquire detonators, and wire everything to go off simultaneously, AND not have anyone else find me or the charges first—I wouldn’t know where to place the bombs so that all of the Pipts’ destruction could be guaranteed. No, my best bet was to find a phone and call the Israelis. They wouldn’t be fooled again.
* * *
They hunted him throughout the years. First the Allies, in their pursuit of war criminals, and finally Wiesenthal and the Jews who understood that monsters must be irrevocably staked and exorcised or they will return again and again to haunt succeeding generations.
Mengele was captured and held as an anonymous POW near Munich but escaped before his true identity could be established. Assuming a false identity, he worked as a farmhand near his native Gunzburg until it became clear that he would never be safe in Europe. With the help of his father’s business connections, he obtained Italian residency papers and, from there, escaped to South America in 1949.
Argentina turned out to be the Nazi Riviera of the postwar decades. Juan Perón ruled his country with an iron hand but was popular with his people. The German expatriates understood life under a dictatorship and how to be an asset to those wielding the power. There and elsewhere the postwar Nazi networks provided aid, shelter, intel, and escape routes to those who had worn the death’s-heads and the twinned lightning bolts during Germany’s fevered nightmare. The Underground established a series of “ratlines” to Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay, funneling refugees and resources. The Angel of Death benefited in both aspects and eluded arrest and capture for thirty more years.
In the end, it was said, he escaped man’s justice but not God’s. Mengele was relaxing at Beritoga Beach in Brazil in 1979 when he decided to go for a swim in the ocean. Away from the shore, he suffered a stroke and began to drown. No one knows whether it was the cerebral infarction or the aspiration of seawater that did what no human jury was able to accomplish. If it was the Hand of God, it seemed to many that He had been rather indolent in finally getting around to it. The only thing that the witnesses agreed upon was, that by the time the man the locals knew as Wolfgang Gerhard was brought to shore by the other swimmers, he was dead. Dr. Josef Mengele had gone to face a greater Tribunal of Justice than the one at Nuremburg.
So the story goes.
The rumors didn’t even leak out until 1985 and not everyone bought into the forensic evidence after the body was exhumed. It wasn’t until 1992 that DNA was taken from a bone and compared to Mengele’s wife, Irene, and son, Rolf, that the casebooks were finally closed. The body in the Brazilian grave had Josef Mengele’s DNA.
Yeah.
Sure.
And so did several dozen other people here in Chez Xerox.
* * *
As I began working my way out and up I was shaking my head—as if that simple act would clear it of nightmarish thoughts.
Vampires.
Werewolves.
Zombies.
Perhaps the classic horror stories are meant to distract us from the fact that the worst monsters are the human ones . . .
I ghosted through a maze of pipework that seemed related to the fortress’s heating plant and stuck my head through a wall in search of an exit.
The next room had a furnace, an old-fashioned ironworks monster that seemed divorced from the tangle of ductwork in the adjacent spaces. Dim orange slots flickered in its heavily gated maw but the room was overlaid with a ghastly green glow that I could attribute to no single light source. The caged incandescent bulbs that lit the room f
or human eyes were switched off.
As I looked around I heard the faint whimpers of a child. The next room beyond? As I walked toward the far wall, a baby’s wails joined in: two voices. A third began to keen as I pushed my head through the far wall. Nothing. Blessed silence. I had stuck my noncorporeal skull into solid bedrock.
The sounds increased and multiplied as I did a reverse ostrich and checked the other walls: more bedrock and an outer chamber with something that looked like a cross between a dumbwaiter and a freight elevator. Many voices were in full cry, now, sounding distant yet present, like someone had upset an entire preschool just next door.
Beyond the chamber was a hallway. As I stepped outside the sound receded. I turned and stuck my head back in. The volume grew. I considered the stainless steel tables in the dim blue glow. The shelves along the walls with their profusion of bottles, containers, and cases. Cabinets. Countertops with instruments and tools. A couple of sinks. A display case.
In the display case were three rows of skulls ranging in size from infant to adolescent. Some were distorted in disturbing ways. Most were blackened with soot and charring. All glowed a bright blue in the dimness. As the wailing grew in crescendo, the glass front of the case rattled and vibrated.
I turned and ran.
Chapter Twenty-One
I used every curse word, every phrase of profanity I knew before I got to the top of the mushy stairs and up to the next level. I was working on inventing new words, a whole new profane language, when the guard came around the corner.
Actually he looked more like the night watchman at a Sandals resort than the “new and improved” Schutzstaffel, upgrade 2.0. His khaki “uniform” was nothing more than a pair of pleated-front Dockers and casual shirt with faux epaulettes. On one side of a Sam Browne belt he wore a holstered sidearm with a snap-down cover, on the other, a large ring of keys—a surprise as I thought everyone had converted to hi-tech electronic pass cards by now. A small walkie-talkie was jammed in his hip pocket. A heavy, six D-cell, baton flashlight swung loosely in his right hand and he occasionally spun it in an elaborate pattern suggesting that illumination might be its secondary function.
First things first: I wasn’t going to accomplish much as long as I was Mister Permeable. I had to get some solidity if I was going to do anything about the Reich-ous Brothers. And since wolves were in short supply and opposable thumbs were a marked improvement over paws, I turned and followed him, trying to figure out just when and where to pimp my ride.
The perfect opportunity came just one floor down and ten minutes later when we ducked into a bathroom. Instead of “number one” or “number two” he did “number three": smoked a cigarette while the vent fan sucked the evidence out of the air. Alone, out of sight, stationary—I had sufficient time to relax and refocus, visualizing the chakras, the energy gates, and preparing for insertion.
I dove, twisting in mid-arc, and the trajectory was perfect.
Until I bounced off instead of in.
Had I missed? I tried again.
Bounced again!
It was like the gate was open and yet still closed. Were humans and wolves that different? I mean, obviously they were but Pauly was evidence that other spooks could hitch a ride inside a man’s head. So why couldn’t I?
I didn’t have the time to figure this out by trial and error. The Wendigo had accelerated my learning curve by poking around in my own not-so-solid skull; maybe another adjustment was in order.
I went ripping back upstairs and shot through a blurred succession of rooms until I was out the front door.
The helipad was empty so either the copter hadn’t arrived yet or it had already lifted off again. Which? The landing lights were turned on—they’d been dark when I had arrived. I looked around: no Wendigo—young Indian maiden or giant, rotting crone.
There was, however, a lone gray wolf. It was pacing about, outside the great double doors, on the “porch” as it were.
“Wendy?” I asked.
It trotted up to me and sat back on its skinny haunches.
“Are you in there?”
“The dark spirit that brought you here has moved higher up and around to the other side of the east tower.”
I did a good old-fashioned double take. Vampires and demons and zombies do tend to expand one’s horizons but they don’t really prepare you for a conversation with a wolf. Well, okay, a werewolf fiancée does prepare you somewhat but it is still rather disconcerting to have a canine jaw drop open and have a human voice emerge.
“Really, Father, I am quite concerned about some of the company that you choose to keep,” the wolf said.
The voice was disturbingly normal, not the guttural growl that Lupé produced when she tried to speak in wolf form. And I noticed that the jaw remained open: the mouth did not actually form the words; it merely got out of the way of the speech that emanated from somewhere inside.
But how? If a werewolf’s vocal chords were hard pressed to approximate human speech then . . .
And that’s when the other part of the riddle caught up to me.
“Father?”
The wolf inclined its head. “Do you prefer ‘Dad?’ Or should we keep this on a first name basis until I’m actually born?”
“You . . . I’m . . . that is . . .” The questions were rear-ending each other like a fifty-car pileup on the Long Island Expressway. “You have a name?”
“I have many names. As do you. As does nearly everyone: it doesn’t begin here, you know. We have a name for every time and every place that we inhabit. And since I am still unborn and you and mother have not yet named me—unless ‘Will’ . . .”
I waved that idea away. “Forgive me but I haven’t really had any time to think about it.”
“Of course.” The wolf, swear to God, actually sighed! “There is so much to do and so little time to do it in. If I should not be born, then this particular question becomes moot.”
“Wait a minute! Lupé! She’s okay? The last I knew she was caught between pack politics and a vengeful demon.”
“Mother is safe for now. She has acquired a powerful protector. It remains to be seen, however, if she can stay safe while involved with you. It is not just a question of your enemies but, as you say, the politics of the pack. And until the current situations are resolved here and in New York, you are both at extreme risk.” His head dropped again. “As am I.”
“Is that why you’re here? To make sure we all get the right to life?”
“For myself?” I didn’t think it was possible for a wolf to shrug but the hunching of his shoulders was very eloquent. “A door closes . . . another opens. Although I would be sorry to not have the opportunity to try this particular portal. “But there are more important destinies at risk beyond my own.”
“No kidding,” I said. “At least now that you’re here and a little more vocal, maybe I can get some answers to some questions.”
“Maybe,” he said. And growled. And lunged at me!
And through me!
I whirled and watched as the wolf attacked a guard who had just come through the outer doors. The man wasn’t expecting a canine attacker and went down primarily due to the element of surprise. His bulky parka made maneuvering difficult so he was staying down for the moment. The wolf’s body, however, was suffering from malnutrition and my son seemed rather inept as a four-legged predator.
“Dad!” he panted. “Hurry!”
“Hurry what?” I rushed to help but how could I? “I don’t have a physical form!”
“Take his!”
“I can’t! I can’t do humans! I can’t enter their chakra gates!”
“Try another way!”
“What other way?”
“I didn’t use any chakra stuff to get inside this wolf. It’s like it was my blood birthright.”
“Courtesy of your mother’s lycanthropy, no doubt.”
“I’m sure that your blood had something to do with it.”
“There is power in
the blood,” I said, quoting the old gospel hymn. This really wasn’t the time or place to argue that blood or genetics seemed a non sequitur to the subject of soul transference. “The problem is he isn’t a wolf and I’m not a lycanthrope.”
“The blood! That’s where your power lies. Use the blood!” His jaws snapped at the man’s face: sharp teeth grazed a cheek and blood began to trickle down his face.
The guard shrieked and threw the wolf off. My furry ally went rolling and before he could regain his feet, the guard was on his knees, getting a grip on his HK semi.
I jumped, aiming for his cheek instead of the swirling blue gateway over his forehead. The world turned crimson and clover, over and over. A rush of physical sensations and the gravel-strewn ground was rushing up toward my face.
* * *
My mother had a cruel streak: she didn’t believe in letting me sleep in past noon on school vacations. If I didn’t set my alarm clock on my own recognizance, she would let King into my bedroom and the big old boxer would give my face a tongue bath until I erupted from a tangle of sheets with cries of disgust and dismay.
This time there were no sheets, no soft mattress, no summer sun casting leafy silhouettes on my bedroom wall. It was cold and the ground was hard with flinty, sharp points of stone that turned any movement into a topography of discomfort. King’s woeful bus-smash face was replaced by the elongated muzzle and crafty-eyed visage of my—er—boy-to-be. The tongue, however, seemed pretty much the same.
“Okay, okay! I’m awake!” I sat up and attempted to wipe the bulk of the wolf slobber off of my face. “How did you know that blood would be the gateway?”
“It is your gift and your curse. It is the seat of your power.”
“Even so, a hell of a lucky guess. Now, where were we?” I tried to climb to my feet. My newfound flesh wasn’t immediately cooperative. “Oh yes, you were refusing to answer my questions. This doesn’t bode well: my son isn’t even born, yet, and already he’s lying to his father.”
Habeas Corpses - The Halflife Trilogy Book III Page 37
