He keels over as I deliver an elbow into his stomach. The guards hold him back as the breath is knocked out of his body. My hand goes to his head, and I pull him close to my face. The tears stop.
“I could have saved you,” I tell him. “Pulled you back from whatever manifested inside you and yet you didn’t see.”
“I did see,” he says. “You saw too. You just chose to ignore it.”
I stand back, looking on with no feeling, thought, or reaction to the scene in front of me—once again, I’m just a passenger in my own head. The crowd swarms over Ulric’s wriggling body. The ropes come out. The knives come out.
“Aren’t you going to do anything, sir?” Volker says to me.
“He lost his way,” I mutter. “I can’t do anything.”
I turn my radio off as screams echo inside my helmet. The only sound that comes through now is the soft whistling of the wind. It overtakes all the noise. The chanting. The screaming. The wind, so familiar here in the Kiln, makes it all go away—it’s almost relaxing. I cross my arms and take it all in, suppressing that voice deep inside which is telling me to go and save him, to take him away from all of this.
The rope wraps around Ulric’s legs. You did this to him. The knives come out. You could have done something, but you didn’t. Ulric wriggles about and more punches send him to the floor once again. They are blaming him for your failings. Ulric attempts to grab at the rope, but he is kicked away. He chose to spare the Scavenger. A boot kicks Ulric in the face; blood pours from his nose. He ignored my advice in that abandoned, ancient, water-borne ship, and his curiosity led him to that damned book. Ulric attempts to wipe the crimson fountain flowing from his face, but his hands are grabbed by a half-dozen men. He brought this onto himself.
The crowd turns to me, eager to hear what I have to say. Ulric squints at me. The sand is thick in the wind. I walk up to him and take off my own helmet. Our eyes meet. We say nothing.
“There will come a time when this desert will consume everyone in it,” he gurgles, the blood oozing from his lips. “Even a fish can drown…”
I don’t say a word. My mouth stays clamped shut as Ulric is hoisted up by the crowd. Through the wind, I hear a soft yell as his body thrashes about. Cheering erupts as the skinny frame of the S.S. Knight goes tumbling off the edge of the ship into the cloud below.
I’m sorry, Ulric. I wanted what was best for you.
For Those Who Journey Into
I hold the old copy of My Struggle in my hands as I gaze out from the bow of the ship. I took the book from Ulric’s room after his death. The face of the pathetic sub-human my brother called Adolf Hitler looks back into me accusingly. It is just a faded picture, just a face, just another thing out here in the Kiln. It has nothing to do with me, nothing to do with my life. How did Ulric become so engrossed by this image—so entranced by this so-called Hitler’s hypnotic eyes that, in the end, his confusion and disgust killed him? As I look at the unfamiliar, black-haired portrait of the Reich’s legendary Eternal Führer, I feel no will to search for answers. No questions arise in my mind about what it signifies.
Or, if I did indeed have any desire to know more, I have shoved that curiosity deep down inside me. So deep that I don’t hear its voice—so deep that I can sleep again.
The towers of Eagle Nest #18 are in clear view. They rise over the desert in a magnificent display. The carvings of eagles, of the swastika, of our blond, Aryan Eternal Führer—all in full glory on this façade.
My brother is dead and I did nothing to stop it.
I look down at the book again. The book that drove him mad. The unblinking eyes of the man on the cover stare back at me. Do I dare open it? I hold it with two armored gloves, standing at the bow of the ship, high above the flat desert. As I turn the pages, I can see that bits of it have become blotchy from the water—still, much of the text remains legible.
What if this truly was the original My Struggle, written by the original Adolf Hitler? Would it matter if the contents of this book, and our view of this person, did indeed change somehow over the millennia? Does it matter to me? I stare blankly back at the pages, flipping through them mindlessly.
I killed my brother. That is a fact that I cannot escape now.
I don’t think I really need to know what the book can tell me about Hitler, or about the history of the ancient Reich. I’m content not knowing why the Atlantropan dams were actually built. The effect of the dams has been that Europeans have not fought a war against one another for thousands of years. That’s what I care about. I don’t need to know who the real Hitler was, because the legacy of that name is enough to inspire millions to this very day. That legacy is what is most important.
The dunes roll far off onto the horizon. The engine still hums. I led my brother to his death.
As I look over the edge of the ship, I can see the sand part, blazing a trail across the deserted plain as the ever-turning treads carry the vessel along. Everything is quiet. I want everything to continue to be quiet. I’m tired of the noise. I’m tired of the fighting inside my head. Tired of this book. Tired of the Kiln.
I lean against the side of the ship and take out the lighter that I use for my cigars. The small flame licks at the bottom of the book and suddenly flashes up over the cover. Hitler’s supposed face is engulfed by the small inferno. My gloves protect me from the heat and I hold the smoldering thing as it turns into a fireball.
Without a second thought I let go, watching the book fall to the desert floor—smiling to myself as it is churned up into the treads, becoming one with the sand.
Acknowledgments
This novel was my first step into writing. It was a process which took a great amount of energy and, most importantly, the attention to those closest to me. I cannot thank my family and friends enough for their support and patience.
My mother, Julie, has pushed me to do better in every aspect of life. Nobody else has inspired and supported me more than she. My mother has and always will be the person I hope to be. My brother, Tyler, bore through hours of conversations detailing the world of Atlantropa and helped shape the narrative from those talks. My father, Ken, gave some very keen insight as well.
To Izzy, my fiancé, I am forever grateful for the purpose she has given me. Without her by my side, I doubt I would have felt any sense of drive in the evolution of my channel and my career.
All who were involved in the actual development of this book, I have nothing but gratitude for. Joseph Pisenti was the one who brought my attention to Mango Publishing. Together, we fleshed out an early concept of the world which changed and shifted so much during development. The finished novel is only a sliver of the ideas that were discussed.
The wonderful people at Mango Publishing lit the path for me in this journey into writing. Managing Editor, Hugo Villabona, contributed to the flow and style of the narrative. His team has the best second opinion one could ask for.
My longtime friends, Caleb, Tyler, Riley, Phil, and Charlie introduced me to the worlds and stories which influenced this novel. Tristan and Tigerstar continue to stay my greatest friends online and I love discussing history with them. Thank you for putting up with my ramblings.
I thank my fantastic community who brought me every opportunity I have today. You’re a group united by the love of history, the evolution of nations, and how all of these concepts influence our lives today. This novel could never have existed without your love of the alternate history genre.
Without the help from everyone along the way, I can theorize with certainty that I would have nothing in this timeline. Thank you all.
Cody Franklin
Cody Franklin has always had an avid fascination with history and geography, which manifested itself into the YouTube channel AlternateHistoryHub. The channel itself has amounted 1.5 million subscribers and his videos have been viewed over 150 million times. However, this is his first pl
unge into the written fiction of alternate history even after years discussing it. He currently resides in Whitehouse, Ohio.
The Atlantropa Articles Page 17
