As soon as they disappeared, I crawled out from the cart and ran the other way down the block. I ran from the Germans, from Frederique’s body. Lying in the street, accusing me of leaving him to die alone.
I never stopped crying. I wept for Frederique. I wept for Mons. But most of all I wept for myself. Even if I did escape Mons, what then? Was anywhere safe from these damned artillery shells? Machines that could throw death miles away, without regard for the victim.
At the end of the street I came to an intersection. I knew my only chance was to stay ahead of the Germans, to rush to the other end of the city and flee into the farmland on the outskirts. The thick foliage of the grape vines would hide me as I kept going, The grapes would feed me, and eventually I’d make it to Paris.
This was good, I told myself as I ran down the street. I had a goal, something I could work towards. Farther down the street, I saw a couple running away as well, suitcases in their hands. They reached the crossing of the next street and the woman screamed.
Someone shouted at them in German, and they ran into the middle of the street. Rifle fire tore through their clothes and suitcases, tiny puffs of fabric erupting out of them. They wilted onto the cobbestone street.
I dove into a stairwell leading to a building basement. I landed hard on my shoulder, bending my head sideways at a painful angle. Fire shot up my forearm all the way to my shoulder. I held my arm close to me, listening for the Germans to move past.
Eventually they did, heading back towards the canal. I emerged from the stairwell and realized my shoulder was dislocated. I couldn’t run. Even walking too quickly made my shoulder howl out in pain. I grit my teeth and walked as quickly as I dared, holding my limp left arm with my right hand.
I passed by the couple, shot dead in the street. They lay face down, their backs full of small holes. Their clothes had been rifled through, their suitcases looted for valuables. A few photographs and letters lay in the street, A wind came through, picking them up and scattering them further down the avenue.
“I’m still alive,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m still alive.”
In front of me, the massive Bibliotheque du Mons towered over the nearby buildings. Thick stone blocks made up it’s three story walls, and the French flag flew from the roof. Basement windows peeked up from the street, papered up to keep prying eyes out.
Just past the library was the main road out of Mons. I could see the farmland off in the distance, stretching to the horizon. Rows of purple grapes, acres of bright yellow sunflowers. It seemed untouched by war, a place of refuge.
I hurried across the boulevard, the tall library casting a shadow over the street. The gunfire had become intermittent. I hadn’t heard any artillery shells in hours. That told me that the resistance had either fled or been destroyed. There would be no survival staying here in Mons.
I crept further along, seeing the edge of town get closer and closer. I would have to make a sling for my arm once I made it to the fields. I knew Paris was southwest from Mons. If I walked at night and hid during the day, I should be safe.
At the rear of the building, I heard a rumbling coming down the street that ran behind it. Hurtling towards the intersection was a truck full of German soldiers. The truck bristled with weapons, like an angry porcupine.
My heart sank. I wouldn’t get across the street in time. I would be shot dead if I tried. There would be no salvation for me. I fell down, leaning back against the library wall. My right hand curled up and slammed downwards with all my might.
Instead of it hammering against the stone of the wall, it smacked something and pushed through. I looked down and saw the basement window, yawning open. Dusty volumes of books blocked the view into the room.
Ahead, the truck screeched to a halt in the intersection, men piling out as orders were shouted in German. I pushed the window open further and slid into the dark room. For a moment I was in freefall, crashing through towers of books. The floor rushed up at me, knocking the air out of my lungs. No air in my lungs meant I couldn’t scream as my left arm was bent back behind me, fully out of socket.
Everything went black.
My eyes opened slowly, and it took them a moment to adjust to the darkness of the store room. My face was pressed against a thick leather bound tome. I tried to pick myself up off the ground and hot lances of fire shot through my shoulder and neck. I grabbed a book with my right hand and put it in my mouth, biting down as my left arm shifted forward. Like a machine with broken gears, it came forward reluctantly. I breathed through flared nostrils, large life affirming breaths. I spat the book out.
“I’m still alive,” I said.
As I stood up I held my dangling arm close to my body. The room began to sway and so I sat back against a table covered in books. Once my vision had returned to normal, I walked to the other side of the room and listened at the door.
I couldn't hear anything outside. I opened the door and went into the adjoining hallway. Everywhere I looked there were shelves of books. Encyclopedias, law books, fiction books, poetry and anything else a reader could want. I'd never come down here to the storage room before, but the public areas above I knew had many more books. Several doors were closed along the hallway, leading into other storage rooms. At the end of the hallway was a door to the stairway leading up to the main library.
I shuffled down the hallway headed towards the stairwell. I could smell the musty scent of moldy books and old leather. Outside I could dimly make out vehicles moving. Occasionally there were gunshots and sometimes yelling.
I got to the stairway door and turn the knob. It opened with a loud creaking sound. I stuck my head out in the stairwell and could see sunlight pouring in from the windows in the main library above. I slowly ascended the stairs, listening as I went, listening for any sign of German presence. The marble stairs were solid, my feet quiet against them. I got to the top of the landing, a wooden door with a small window that looked out into the main area of the library. I edged over to the door and looked in.
The main area of the library was full of dark hardwood tables, each adorned with handcrafted scrollwork on the edges. The chairs were plush leather and equally magnificent. Dark paneling ran along the walls and several fireplaces were scattered on the outside of large room. During the winter, learned men would come into the library to talk about the news, debate politics and enjoy a pipe before bedtime. It was always clamoring and bustling part of the city. Now it was empty, which was unsettling in a new way. I wondered if it would ever be enjoyed again.
I tried to focus. What was important now was that it was empty. I opened the door and snuck into the main library room. If I could sneak out the front I might be able to make my way further down the avenue and cut across into the fields. Away from the checkpoint.
My hand went to the knob of the front door of the library. Peeking out the window I saw that the front of the building was still clear of German soldiers. I was confident that I could run across the avenue without being spotted. Maybe there was a basement I could hide in, or an attic. A damned fruit cellar would suffice, as long as it kept me hidden.
I held my breath and counted. One. Two. Three.
Before I could turn the knob and make my escape, a strong hand closed over my mouth and pulled me backwards. My good hand shot behind me, seeking out soft flesh to dig my fingers into. My thumb found a nose, and I curled it in my hand, trying to tear at the face it belonged to. The man was tall, and broad shouldered. But I wasn't going out without a fight. The hand over my mouth released me as my attacker stumbled backwards.
"Dammit," he said, holding his hands to his face. I lurched backwards and fell over a leather chair. As I got up to scramble away, I got a good look at him. Bent over, holding his face in pain, was a member of the British Expeditionary Force.
"I'm so sorry," I said. I walked over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "But you shouldn't of snuck up on me like that."
"You should've told me that before you almost tore
my face off," he said. He wiped his face one last time and took his hands away. He had short brown hair and blue eyes, the color of the summer sky. His uniform was that of British Expeditionary Force soldier, but I did not see a rank insignia anywhere. It must have fallen off.
"Well, if you are done frightening me, it is time I bid you adieu,” I said walking back towards the door.
"No you don't," he said moving to stand between me and the door. His eyes looked down at me dangerously.
"What is this? Are you an animal like the Germans?" I said, backing away from him. You never knew with some men, some were born animals. It didn't matter what uniform they wore or whose side they fought on, once there was no rule of law they became savages. “I’ll scream."
"No, you won't." He said then his eyes got softer, "I'm sorry. I'm not going to hurt you. We cannot draw any attention to us being here. I cannot be discovered."
"Then let me leave," I said.
"I'm sorry, but I can't risk it. Chances are you will be shot and then they'll look around this place a little closer." He said. "I have my mission, and right now I need you to cooperate."
"I don't give a shit for your mission. The town has fallen. The Huns are massacring everyone. Your mission isn’t worth the breath it was spoken with," I said.
"Now listen here," he said. Before he could continue, his eyes went wide. "Shit! Run!" We fled to one of the smaller attached rooms containing rows and rows of shelves of books. I could hear voices coming up the front steps of library.
“We have to split up," he said.
"What?" I said.
"If they find me, you can still get away." He said as he ran around as he ran down the rows of books and darted in between a set of bookcases.
"But what if they find me?" I said in a whisper. There was no response. Bastard!
I heard the front door this the library open and several sets of boots coming in quickly. Quiet, curt words were spoken in German. I tried to swallow but my throat was dry. I sunk to the back of the aisle of books, trying to make myself as small as possible.
The sound of the boots came closer, and I could hear there were three men. As they all entered this room, I ducked down to try to hide myself the best I could. I close my eyes and waited for the fate I knew was coming.
"Oh meine fraulein. Komm hier, bitte,” a man's voice said.
I open my eyes and standing at the end of the aisle were three German soldiers. Their dark gray uniforms were covered in smeared mud, their faces were filthy. Their eyes were wild, crazed. They looked at me like a starving man looked at a piece of bread.
"No, please," I said, crying. Perhaps they would take pity on me. Perhaps they would leave me my dignity.
My hopes were dashed as all three men grinned at my terror, and unslung their rifles. Leaning them against the bookcase, they walked down the aisle towards me, pinning me in. The middle one pulled a long knife, and put his finger up to his lips. "Shh,” he said. The other two were fumbling with their trousers.
“Urk!” the soldier in back sputtered. Blood poured from his mouth as he fell forward.
The BEF soldier pulled his combat knife out of the German’s back as the other two rushed him. He brought it up to slash down again, but his arm was caught over his head by one of the remaining Huns.
The other German plunged his knife into the British soldier’s chest repeatedly. He pulled the knife free one last time as the British soldier collapsed, his chest covered in holes. The German bent forward and wiped his knife clean on the soldier’s uniform.
I ran down the aisle, ducking past them to escape. An arm shot out and punched me in the side of the face. I spun sideways, crashing into the bookcase, sending volumes tumbling out the other side. I lay on the floor, my ears ringing and my vision dizzy.
The two Germans were arguing, one wanting to kill me and the other wanting to rape me and then kill me. The one with the knife used it to gesture at me, like he was pointing out vermin that needed to be extinguished. The other was holding his trousers up, but still hadn’t put his belt back on. He looked like a petulant child, angry that his father was going to take his toy.
Behind them, I saw the British soldier’s body shake. Sad death spasms, a last hurrah of life. I wondered if my body would do the same after the Germans came to an agreement.
Then his eyes opened. In a flash, he was on his feet. His body became darker, somehow, like a shadow that fell only on him. His face stretched, his teeth and nose jutting forward like a dog’s. His ears grew long and pointed, and I could make out that it wasn’t a shadow but fur that stretched all over him. He was a wolf man, a terrible monster from the stories!
The Germans must’ve felt the presence behind them, because they spun around, their jaws dropping. Before either could scream, massive furry arms grabbed each by the neck and lifted them off the ground.
The werewolf snarled, pulling his lips back to reveal long canines. His eyes burned golden, iridescent in their hatred. His arms flexed and strained, choking the two men.
The soldier with the knife stabbed at the creature’s arm, hoping to inflict enough injuries to be released. He stabbed the arm, sliced the arm and even sawed at it like it was a tree branch. The werewolf seemed to take no notice as blood poured from it’s arm.
The unarmed German tried using both hands to break the grasp, but the clawed hand around his neck didn’t budge. The full power of his two arms could not move just two of the werewolf’s fingers. He kicked his legs, flailing around with all his might.
The werewolf sharply twisted his wrist and the German went slack, his neck at an unnatural angle. He dropped onto the ground with a thud. His tongue rolled out of his mouth, like a fish from the deep sea brought up to the surface too fast.
The werewolf turned his attention back to the knife wielding German. He tilted his head and brought the German closer to him. His hand still clamped around the bastard’s throat, slowly choking him.
The German stabbed the werewolf in the chest, neck, and face. The knife would plunge in and out, erupting in blood each time. The werewolf either didn’t feel pain or didn’t care. A dozen fatal blows did not so much as make it flinch. The German’s hand dropped the knife, and the last spasm of his legs indicated he was dead.
The werewolf dropped him with contempt.
Then those golden eyes turned to me. His huge claws reached down. My eyelids slammed shut and I lost consciousness.
My eyes fluttered open. A single candleflame illuminated a cramped space of damp bricks on all sides. The British soldier sat next to me, reading a book. He glanced down at me, those blue eyes comforting and sincere.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m still alive,” I said. I sat up and realized my dislocated shoulder was popped back into place. My arm hung in a sling. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “But you are guilty of an unforgivable crime.” His eyes never left the pages of his book.
“What did I do?” I asked. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could tell we were in a tunnel underground.
“You never told me your name,” he said. “It’s unforgiveably rude, but I could overlook your trespass just this once.” He put down his book and looked at me, extending his hand. “Quentin Yardborough, First Sergeant of the Boyd Highlanders.”
“My name is Joan. Ms. Joan Epri,” I said, taking his warm hand in mine. It felt good to touch someone again in a friendly way.
“I’m sorry about back there,” he said, his eyes falling away. “About what you had to see.”
“What…” I said, not knowing how to finish my question politely.
He smiled and turned around, grabbing something from a pack on the ground. He turned back to me with a small paper covered package. He peeled the paper back, revealing the crackers inside. He offered them to me. “Eat, you must be starving.”
Bucking Bearback (BBW Shifter Cowboy Western Romance) (Bear Ranchers Book 5) Page 111
