The Lost Cathedral (The Vatican Knights series Book 7)

by Rick Jones

  Gunter Wilhelm stepped behind the two boys who began to cry uncontrollably. “You had your chance, Franz. And once again you failed.” He withdrew his Luger.

  Franz stepped forward in challenge, his hands raised out to Gunter imploringly. “You made your point,” he told him. “Everyone here gets it.” There was nothing fragile in his voice when he spoke. Instead, there was a strong determination in his tone to stop this, a measure of courage not heard by Gunter which obviously pleased him by the marginal smile he offered Franz.

  “Finally,” said Gunter, “the voice of a leader.”

  With that he raised his weapon and pulled the trigger, killing the first boy who fell forward from the log and into the mud.

  Franz was stunned, as was everyone else with the exception of the lieutenants, who appeared numbed by this action as if they were expecting it.

  Gunter went to the second Jungvolk boy and pressed the point of his weapon against the back of the child’s skull, prompting cries and pleas. “You see the consequences of your failure, Franz. And in my unit failure is unacceptable.” He pulled the trigger, killing the second boy.

  Franz could see no remorse in the eyes of Gunter Wilhelm, nothing at all.

  “Fail me not again, Franz.” Gunter held the weapon up in display, his scepter of rule. “If you do so again, then surely you will be next.”

  After holding the Luger for another ten seconds to make his point, he holstered it. “Be ready in five,” Gunter told everyone. “We move south.”

  “Five?” asked Franz. “Will we not bury them?”

  “I do not bury cowards who run from a glorious future. The dogs running wild in the countryside will have them. Nature takes care of its own.”

  “Gunter . . . no, please. Let me bury them. The earth is soft. It won’t take long.”

  Wilhelm rested a hand against his holster and against the Luger. “I’ve issued my orders, Franz. Be ready in five.”

  As Gunter walked away with his lieutenants, Franz looked at the bodies of the two boys lying face-first in the mud. Red gore from exit wounds were beginning to pool and mix with the soil as blood began to trickle forward along the ground in runnels.

  Suddenly Franz felt weak and light-headed, his vision closing in from the edges. So he sat down, in the mud, and waited as the blood of his friends flowed towards him. When he reached down and dipped his fingers in the mixture of blood and earth, his fingertips came away with a gummy-granular consistency stuck to them.

  After a long moment he finally wiped his fingers against his clothes, staining them with the blood of his Jungvolk brethren that would never go away.

  When the five minutes expired, Gunter—true to his word—called the team together.

  As a collective of ten boys, they began their journey to Italy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  At nightfall, just as the last streamers of light faded and the sparkles of constellations took to the sky, the boys came to a small clearing two hundred kilometers northeast of Italy’s border. In the middle of the field, at least from their position, they could see that a pack of roving dogs had converged on something large as they fed.

  The boys stood and watched as the acids within their stomachs growled and churned with hunger. Over the weeks they had little to eat, the pounds shedding off their bones until they became hollowed-eyed and sallow-cheeked.

  When the pack saw them they turned, raised their hackles, and readied themselves to defend their bounty. Growls emanated deep from the backs of their throats. And as the boys approached they could see that the dogs were every bit as wasted as they were.

  Gunter pulled his sidearm as they stood within twenty feet of the dogs, who were barking in warning to the encroachers to step no further.

  Six dogs in all bore teeth that were wickedly long and keen. They had been feeding on a mule whose meat had grown rancid, the stench awful—the meat, however, tender. But the moment was one of mutual appraisal with the mule the prize. The boys looked at the dogs and salivated. In return the dogs measured the boys while they, too, salivated. Savage bloodlust arose as an all-consuming hunger turned the moment into one of self-preservation with the dogs eventually taking the initiative to circle the boys, their newfound prey.

  Considered to be man’s best friend, it was obvious that the skill of the hunt was wired into their psyche. Man was no longer a companion for which they showed unconditional love, but a feast.

  The growling intensified.

  And the boys raised their cudgels, which they had gathered in the forests.

  There was no fear, no time to think beyond the current moment. There was only hunger.

  But Gunter was an apex predator with dominion over all. He raised his weapon, aimed, and pulled the trigger, the bullet striking the largest of the pack. The dog gave a painful yelp before falling quickly to the ground. Then there was a second shot. And another canine went down as a single round smashed its life from its body.

  The other dogs took stock of the moment, saw the boys approaching and swinging their cudgels, then ran with their tails between their legs, realizing that the moment was lost.

  That night no fire was built because none of the boys knew how to create one. Sticks were rubbed together but they were damp. Stones were clacked together like cymbals to create sparks, but they weren’t flint. So they tore at the flesh and ripped meat from bone after peeling back the hides of the canines. When their bellies were filled, life was good. In fact, it was the best it had been for weeks since they no longer hungered.

  “The dogs are not far off,” Gunter eventually commented as the entire team sat in a wide circle. “They’re hungry, so they’re watching and waiting for the precise moment.”

  “Let them have the mule,” said Franz. “We can move away and allow them to feed.”

  Gunter gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re getting bold, Franz. I like that. Leaders need to be bold.”

  “The dogs are hungry. Let them feed, Gunter. Please.”

  After a moment of deliberation, Gunter nodded and stood. “If the dogs feed on the mule, then we would be of no interest to them during the night. They will not attack.”

  They grabbed what little possessions they had and moved towards the southerly tree line, but remained a safe distance away in case something remained hidden within the shadows.

  Within the hour the dogs approached the carcass with caution, always turning a keen eye towards Gunter’s crew to the south. When they started to feed, Gunter playfully raised his weapon and began to shoot at the pack. The bullets missed by a wide margin, but the effect sent the dogs scurrying back into the woods.

  “What are you doing?” asked Franz.

  Gunter gave him a sideways look. “I’m reminding them who the king is of this valley.”

  “You’re wasting valuable ammunition.”

  When Franz said this, Gunter examined the gun and made an expression of having a sudden epiphany. The young Jungvolk was right. There were only twenty rounds left, so he holstered the weapon. Then nonchalantly: “Franz, choose another in the Jungvolk and keep watch tonight.”

  “Yes, Gunter.”

  “And remember what I said about failure and consequences. One of my lieutenants will be watching over the camp group . . . Their lives will be in your hands.”

  “Nothing will happen.”

  “See that nothing does.” Gunter shifted his weight against the ground, positioning himself for sleep. “Tomorrow we have a long day. And now that our bellies are full we’ll have the strength for the journey, yes?” Gunter shifted enough to peer over his shoulder and directly at Franz, who was staring at him with a gaze that was just as determined. After a long moment Gunter finally turned away with his back towards him.

  And Franz noted that he did not sleep on his holstered side, the weapon in full view, and with a slight hand it could be easily extracted from its sheath. The scepter could be his for the taking.

  Just as that thought rested on his mind a crooked cudgel landed
at his feet. Albrecht Krause had been watching him. “Take the stick and watch the tree line,” Krause told him with a curt tone. “If you see anything, then holler.”

  Franz grabbed the club, then bowed his head toward the lieutenant in feigned respect. “Yes, Albrecht.”

  Grabbing another to aid him on his watch, Franz made his way to the tree line. But not before he gave the holstered weapon one last look.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  During the night renegade clouds moved in and it began to rain, hard, causing the boys to draw together in the camp for heat as rain pelted them. Franz, along with Karl Goetz, a wispy-thin boy who was just as frail of courage as he was of body, sat close to the tree line with their collars hiked up against the rain.

  “I’m scared, Franz,” said Karl. His voice sounded like that of an adolescent, the pitch high and sweet. “I want to go home.”

  “There is no home,” Franz told him. “Not anymore.”

  “I want to see my mother and father.”

  Franz let that hang for a moment. Everyone they knew were either dead or had run from the Russian approach. All they had left was each other. And Gunter Wilhelm was no bargain.

  Then: “Franz?”

  “Yeah, Karl.”

  “Did you ever kill anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Not even on the Russian Front?”

  “No.”

  “I did,” he said. “Gunter made me.”

  Franz looked at the boy who looked more like eight than eleven. “What?”

  Karl nodded. And his face looked like it was about to crack. “A Russian soldier was wounded. Just . . . lying there with his hand held up in the air and pleading for help.” He hitched back a sob. “Gunter called him all kinds of vile names. Spat on him. Then he kicked him in the side where he was wounded.”

  Franz listened intently. “And where was I?”

  “This was before your unit joined with ours. Maybe a day or two.” Karl responded sweetly. “Gunter told me that this is what it was all about, whatever ‘it’ was. He said that I needed to prove myself worthy—that I had to put down the Russian. So he gave me his gun, his Luger, and told me to put the dog out of its misery. That’s what he called him: a dog.”

  Franz felt for him. Karl was a boy, a child who was forced to commit an act of murder.

  “He told me to look into the Russian’s eyes, aim the Luger to a point between them, and pull the trigger—that it would be that simple.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  Karl shook his head. “No. When I aimed the Luger at the Russian’s head I saw the terror in his eyes, the realization that he was about to die. He pleaded with me, begged me, but all I could hear was Gunter’s voice screaming in my ear to pull the trigger.” A beat. “So I did. I killed him, Franz. I put a bullet in his forehead, saw his eyes roll up into his sockets before he fell back. And all I could think about was my brother because he was about my brother’s age. He was fifteen, maybe sixteen.” Then Karl fully broke, the child sobbing uncontrollably. So Franz, who wore a woolen coat that was gray with swastika emblems on the shoulder straps like epaulets, swept an arm around Karl and pulled him close.

  “It’s all right,” Franz told him. “We both know you wouldn’t have done it if Gunter wasn’t there.”

  “I want to go home,” he wept.

  “We all do. But going home is not an option. Not now. We need to go to Italy, away from the Red Army. Gunter is right about that.”

  “I’m afraid of Gunter.”

  “Everybody is. Gunter’s not well. He’s blind, obsessed and unwilling to let go of a sick ideology. He rules by fear, not by compassion.”

  Karl turned to Franz. “You’re compassionate,” he told him. “I can tell. You should lead. Not Gunter. People will follow you.”

  Easier said than done, Franz thought. Especially when Gunter had the Luger in his possession. Then considering further: But only when the time was right.

  Franz maintained his hold, one child giving comfort to another. “It’ll be all right, Karl,” he finally said, staring off into darkness. It’ll be all right.

  The rain continued to fall.

  And relentlessly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The following morning, as sunlight began to filter through openings in the cloud cover, the team was quickly assembled. At the far end of the clearing everyone noted that something had come forward during the night and ravaged what was left of the mule. Gunter did not let this go uncontested as he faced off with Franz.

  “Did you not see what came from the darkness as we slept?” he asked. “Were you not diligent in your duties?”

  “Gunter, Karl and I were by the tree line to the south. You know this. If anything, Albrecht” –He pointed to Gunter’s lieutenant—“was closer to the mule—”

  “Silence!”

  Franz lower his hand submissively.

  “You were on watch over the landing,” added Gunter. “Albrecht was watching those within the camp.”

  “I’m sorry,” Franz said apologetically.” It won’t happen again.” Though the Youth leader did not offer a malevolent smile, Franz knew Gunter was smiling inwardly at the small victory of effectively pressing his authority.

  Then from Gunter: “You’re becoming a disappointment, Franz.” With that said, Gunter Wilhelm turned and took point alongside Albrecht Krause. The Jungvolk boys were in the middle of the pack. And Hermann Braun and Fredric Austerlitz took rear.

  Approximately ten kilometers into their march toward the Italian border, Karl Goetz began to cough with a wet rattle deep inside his chest. Later during the journey he took on a pale color with rings forming around his eyes and sweat beading upon his brow. His lips were more lavender than pink. And he began to shiver uncontrollably. Four kilometers after that Karl Goetz finally went to his knees and fell into a coughing jag, the boy expelling small traces of yellowish-green phlegm.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Gunter asked.

  Franz took to his knees beside Karl, pulled him close enough to feel the shivers and excessive body heat. “He’s sick,” he answered.

  Karl was spitting out the last of his sickness to the dirt.

  “We need to move,” said Gunter. “The Russians are coming in from the east and northeast. The Americans from the west. Time is not a luxury.”

  “The Russians won’t come this far south,” Franz contested. “And the Americans will do nothing to boys. Karl is sick. He needs help.”

  Gunter’s face remained neutral. “Help?”

  “Please, Gunter. He’s scared and sick. He can’t take another step.”

  Gunter was silent for a long moment. Then in a voice that was flat-line cold, he said: “Fair enough.” Without adding anything further he handed the Luger over to Albrecht Krause, who then made his way behind the sick boy and pointed the weapon to the back of Karl Goetz’s head.

  Then from Gunter: “American and British patrols could be closing in from both sides as we speak, which means we’re wasting time by this.” He pointed a finger toward Karl to emphasize the situation when he said ‘by this.’

  “Gunter, please.” Franz pleaded in earnest as he held Karl close to him.

  “Step away,” Gunter told him. “Or the bullet may take you as well.”

  “Gunter—”

  Albrecht turned the Luger on Franz and quickly interjected. “He said ‘step away.’”

  Franz refused.

  “Very well,” said Gunter. Then he went to a knee to be at eye-level with Karl and Franz, though from a short distance. “If Karl can keep himself from coughing for one minute,” he held up his forefinger to indicate the number one, “just one, then he can remain with the unit.” He looked at Franz. “Agreed?”

  “This isn’t a game, Gunter. He’s really sick.”

  Back to Karl, Gunter asked, “Can you do it? All I ask is a minute.”

  Karl didn’t respond.

  “Very well then.” Gunter nodded to Albrecht. “Do
what you must.”

  When Albrecht redirected his aim to the back of Karl’s head, the sick boy quickly raised his hand and cried out. “Yes!” he screamed. “I can do it! One minute!”

  Gunter smiled with impish delight—with an upward curl to one side of his lips. He then got back to a standing position. “Excellent,” he said.

  “Gunter, you don’t have to do this,” said Franz.

  The troop leader could see that Franz had already prognosticated the outcome—the boy knowing the future because some things in life were inevitable. And because of this Gunter’s smile remained as a devilish, crooked grin. In the end it came down to one thing to him: he commanded fate. His and everyone else’s.

  “One minute,” Gunter finally said. Then “Your time starts—” He let his words hang cruelly for a passing moment, expecting Karl to end the game before it had a chance to begin with a single cough.

  “Now.”

  “You don’t have a watch,” Franz commented.

  “I’m counting in my head. Sixty seconds . . . fifty-nine . . .” Then he went into a silent count, if at all.

  And to everyone there time appeared eternal and slow. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like hours. All the while Gunter stood firm with his arms folded across his chest, and watched.

  Then Karl began to squirm as his enflamed lungs suddenly began to protest. His face turned crimson, the boy fighting to stave off a cough.

  “You’re almost there,” Gunter said.

  But a minute had passed. Franz was sure of this.

  “Alllllllllmost,” Gunter spurred.

  And then there was a sudden and violent release as Karl went into a coughing jag.

  With a slight wave of Gunter’s hand, Albrecht raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, a summary execution as the sharp report echoed across the valley.

  Franz, completely stunned by the viciousness of the act, slowly eased Karl to the soil until his forehead rested against the earth. Blood fanned out beneath Karl’s head in a spreading pool, and the ground began to absorb it.