Predictably, the scholars in the party protested. It was unnecessarily dangerous, they claimed. Worse, it was garish. They may have held advanced degrees, he thought, but degrees were no substitute for clarity of thought. Clarity of purpose. And that, he decided, was the key difference between being a researcher and being an officer.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “your mission is to unearth the past.” The small team of scholars was from the research branch of the SS, the Ahnenerbe, which sought archeological and historical evidence of the superiority of the Aryan race. For this expedition, their mission was searching the ancient Dacian ruins in the Carpathian Mountains for Germanic influence. Drexler’s squad served as their protective detail. “I’m afraid I must concern myself with the here and now.”
“It’ll horrify the men,” said Dr. Aldrich, the lead Ahnenerbe historian, a bookish man a decade older than Drexler.
“Your men, not mine.”
“It’s barbaric,” protested Aldrich.
“Security and logistics,” said Drexler, this time with a smile and a hint of steel in his voice, “are my domain, Doctor. Your protection is paramount, while this guide has but a day left to live, two at most. He will not make Bucharest. And since he is no longer able to navigate, I’m sure he would appreciate the opportunity to glorify the Reich in another capacity.”
Still, it was a bad omen, Drexler conceded to himself. The expedition was less than a week old and tragedy had already struck. His contingent, two soldiers and a medic, had grown up in Berlin and were restless and unfamiliar with the forest, a source of fear and superstition. To him, it was like coming home. He had grown up hardy in a bucolic Austria, hungry only for German reunification. Great change was sweeping through Berlin, and though he longed to see it, right now, atop a horse in the Romanian forest, there was no place he would rather be.
To boost morale, he tacked paper targets to trees. The best shot would take the second watch after him. His men lined up, eager to impress, while the researchers stayed in their tents.
Unsurprisingly, Schäfer, the medic, proved to be a dismal shot.
Their cook, Keubler, took three shots to hit the target. He wouldn’t do.
Finally, Bruner, a handsome soldier recruited directly from the Hitler Youth, drilled the target on the first shot. Over dinner, Bruner teased his comrades relentlessly.
That night, Drexler and his soldiers moved the unconscious guide to the clearing. Drexler touched the man’s forehead. He was raging with fever. “Keubler,” he said, “make him a fire. Make him as comfortable as possible.”
Drexler took the first watch at the rise of a hill overlooking the clearing. After midnight, Bruner arrived to relieve him. Drexler stayed until his eyes grew heavy enough that he feared he wouldn’t be of much use. Finally, he urged vigilance to the young soldier and retired to his tent. He awoke at dawn with a start. He had heard no shots. Nothing stirred. Jogging to the hill, he found Bruner fast asleep. He woke him with a sharp kick to the ribs.
Bruner yelped and rolled over. He looked confused for a moment, then, as he saw his glaring lieutenant, the horror of his situation dawned on him. He followed his lieutenant’s gaze to the clearing and saw what Drexler saw. The fire gone cold, a thin finger of gray smoke winding its way into the morning air. An empty bedroll. A slick of gore leading to the edge of the woods.
“I’m sorry, sir. I-I don’t know…”
“Perhaps, Bruner, our guide miraculously healed himself and he decided to go for a stroll into the woods.”
Bruner was shaking. “Forgive me, sir.”
Drexler removed his Browning Hi-Power and put it to Bruner’s forehead. “I would be within my rights to shoot you on the spot. Or, better yet,” he said, aiming at the boy’s knee, “let you follow the guide’s trail.” Bruner closed his eyes and waited. Tears squeezed from their corners.
Finally, Drexler holstered his pistol. “But I’m already down one man. I’ll figure out what to do with you when we reach Bucharest.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“For now, go down there and clean up the damned mess before the Ahnenerbe see it or I’ll never hear the end of it. We’ll tell them he died in the middle of the night. Peacefully. Dig a grave while you’re at it.”
Drexler thought of wiring Berlin to requisition another soldier when they eventually arrived in Bucharest but thought better of it. They had only just begun the expedition, and problems this early might reflect poorly on his leadership. With a single report, Drexler could have sent Bruner to prison, but now Bruner owed him his life. When Drexler gave Bruner the news that he would remain with the expedition, he thanked him so profusely it was undignified. Had they known then of the chest and the doom that awaited them all, Bruner would have chosen prison.
—
With each expedition, the Ahnenerbe sought proof of the Aryan hand on the tiller of history. Lieutenant Drexler didn’t see the point. Poking around two-thousand-year-old dust as a justification to do what needed to be done today…but he would never say such a thing aloud. It was an incredible honor the SS had bestowed by charging him with the responsibility of the expedition’s security.
Drexler managed to shoot the wolf himself, which only earned him more respect with his men. He dressed it himself as well. They had plenty of provisions—and wolf meat was typically tough—but nonetheless he took the best bits and used them for a stew. It was a symbolic act. He needed to remind his soldiers they were the predators, not the prey. The men celebrated the kill late into the night.
Aldrich’s spirits didn’t improve, however.
That evening by the fire, when the other men had bedded down, Drexler said, “You didn’t touch your stew, Doctor.”
“I apologize,” replied Aldrich.
Drexler couldn’t see the man’s eyes. The glass of his spectacles glowed in the firelight, but the bookish man offered a pained smile. “I don’t mean to appear ungrateful.”
The lieutenant flashed his own dazzling smile. “I know you’re not a vegetarian.”
“The wolf had incredible significance to the Dacians,” said Aldrich. “Their god appeared as a wolf. They referred to themselves as wolves. Young Dacians went through an initiation where they lived as wolves.”
“I didn’t think scholars were supposed to be superstitious.”
“I’m not. Just respectful.”
“I’m showing the wolf precisely as much respect as it would’ve shown you. Had I allowed it the chance.”
Aldrich’s mouth grew tight, as if he wanted to say more, but Drexler placed his hands on his thighs, pushing himself away from the fire. “Sleep well, Doctor. I know I will.”
The next morning, stomachs full, they found the ruins. And among them, the chest.
It was half buried, but unlike the rest of the low and crumbling walls, the chest appeared unblemished, as if someone had just left it there the night before. When the scholars discovered it, they could scarcely contain themselves. Even the soldiers, who had been wandering around the old fortress where it had been found, had gathered, intrigued.
Drexler stood over the hunched scholars as they gingerly daubed the dirt from the artifact. It was small, like a child’s toy, with ornate markings Drexler could not decipher.
“Am I mistaken or does it look new?” he asked.
“Excellent question, Lieutenant!” said Aldrich, ebullient, all sins forgiven. “It does look incredibly well preserved. Truth be told, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. And these markings and inscriptions, they’re not Dacian at all, but Aramaic…”
Bruner stood nearby. Since the incident with the wolf, he had taken to mirroring and amplifying his lieutenant’s moods and grew impatient with the scholars.
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” he barked.
Aldrich shook his head. “As much as I’d like to, I have no idea what, if anything, is inside. The sun and air could damage something precious. Or there could be something inside that could be harmful to us.”
Drexler looked around the perimeter of the fortress they were standing in. There was nothing left but a low stone wall surrounding them. It was the only trace, besides the large, circular slab of an old sundial, that hinted a city had once thrived here. It put him in mind of the Trojan horse. He narrowed his eyes at the pristine chest. “Harmful?”
“Fungus,” said the doctor.
“Best to wait until Berlin, then,” said Drexler.
They made camp in the same clearing as the ruins. That night, they awoke to a scream. Drexler was on his feet, his pistol clutched in his hand, before even the night sentry could respond. A member of the Ahnenerbe research team named Trautmann lay writhing on the ground, his hands clapped to his eyes. The chest was open. Drexler slammed it shut.
“You opened it, didn’t you?” he spat.
The scholar merely shrieked that he couldn’t see, that it had sung to him, alternating between the two. Drexler consulted the medic and the other scholars, but they had no answers.
“Damn fool,” muttered the lieutenant.
After some time, the scholar’s vision began to return, the commotion died down, and the men returned to their bedrolls. Drexler announced that the next person to open the chest would be shot at once. The next morning, however, Trautmann awoke with a mad look in his eye and wouldn’t speak to anyone. Every so often, he burst into fits of unnerving laughter.
Drexler wasn’t superstitious, but he could gauge the mood of his men. “Can he ride?” he asked Schäfer, the medic.
They set out, heading east, and though Trautmann still didn’t speak, the laughter seemed to subside. The next morning, however, when they awoke at their new camp, there was no trace of Trautmann. And Schäfer was giggling.
—
The tatters of their cursed expedition continued for Bucharest and transport home. It had been an abject failure, and Lieutenant Drexler had steeled himself for whatever punishment awaited him when he returned to Berlin with only Bruner at his side and a single scholar remaining, Aldrich. The men were exhausted, as they preferred to spend as much time in the saddle as possible, foregoing sleep.
One by one, their ranks were thinned by the laughing sickness. As they roamed the remote hills, continuing their search for ruins, they would awake to find a member struck dumb, the power of speech having left him and his only communication a dry wheezing that sounded to all like laughter. Beyond the unnerving tittering and the wild look in their eyes, there seemed to be nothing else wrong with them and they were deemed fit to ride. After Trautmann vanished, Drexler posted a night watch. The next morning, the camp awoke and found that Schäfer had wandered off as well and Newberger was struck dumb. Two days later, Newberger vanished, and Keubler was infected. And so it went. The lieutenant doubled his night watches; however, by then no one wanted to fall asleep.
It was maddening. You couldn’t fight a disease, and their medic was one of the first men to vanish. Drexler didn’t know what to do other than abandon the mission and flee.
Two days out from Bucharest, they were only three: Drexler, Aldrich, and Bruner. That morning, Drexler rose before the others. Bruner sat hunched by the fire, Aldrich snoring from his tent. Drexler walked past without a word, only a nod that said Watch him, and Bruner nodded back. The lieutenant was bone tired, but, worse, he was frustrated. He’d been beaten. Naturally, a disease no one in the expedition had ever experienced before was beyond his control, but the SS didn’t acknowledge that anything was beyond their control. At the riverbank, splashing water on his face, he saw the slough.
A few feet away from where he crouched was a deep impression in the mud, surrounded by a mad scatter of bootprints. Something large and heavy had lay in the mud and had been dragged to the water’s edge. Drexler examined the impression, daubed his fingers into the deepest recesses of the muddy hollow, and they came back red. He straightened and looked downriver.
He didn’t have to walk far. A few hundred yards away, he found the discarded body, caught in some bramble, half submerged. Whatever had pushed him into the water thought the river would take him farther or simply didn’t care. From what he could see of the exposed body, which had been stripped naked, it looked as if a large animal had gotten to it first. Soft tissue had been torn off, exposing stark, white bone. He waded into the river far enough to grip the submerged body’s hair, lift it out of the water, and look into the dead eyes of Bruner.
If Lieutenant Drexler had weaknesses, he didn’t dwell on them, but preferred to catalog his strengths. Decisiveness was chief among them. When presented with a situation, no matter how difficult or inexplicable, he didn’t waste time questioning how he had arrived at such an impasse. His only thought was finding the most efficient, expedient way to victory. It was the quality that first caught the eye of his SS recruiters and what had pleased his superior officers ever since. So he didn’t think, How can this be? His dwindling party had been seeking a solution to this riddle for days. One by one, as if his brain were a tumbler lock and the chewed carcass of Bruner was a key, the pins aligned and his mind finally turned. It was unbelievable—fantastical—but however outlandish, he knew they were not fighting a disease. They were fighting a predator.
He spun for the river’s edge and saw Bruner, whole and strong, blocking his path and wearing not only the dead man’s uniform, but a large grin. Whatever this thing was, Drexler saw that it relied on ambush, terror, the lag in its victim’s comprehension. There was no such lag for Drexler. Still in the river, he jerked his Browning from its holster and squeezed off two shots before the impostor vanished behind a stand of trees. He thought he had struck its arm before it disappeared, but he heard laughter fill the trees. Despite the hairs rising along his neck, he exploded from the water and sprinted for camp.
He found Aldrich standing in the middle of the camp, blinking and alone, having just woken.
“Lieutenant, where have you been?”
Without breaking stride, the lieutenant said, “My apologies, Doctor,” then brought the butt of the pistol down on Aldrich’s head.
—
Aldrich woke in the middle of a clearing, screaming, as Drexler watched him from a hilltop under cover of a stand of trees. He had spent the day making preparations, and now the scholar was tightly bound, the ropes staked into the ground. Two fires burned on either side of him for warmth, but mostly for Drexler’s illumination. He watched Aldrich thrash and plead through the scope of his rifle, but Drexler would not let him loose. Once again, it came down to simple math: There was something far worse than a wolf hunting them now, and he and Aldrich were the only two left. Drexler was exhausted, and they were still two days’ ride from civilization, from Bucharest. Knowing that they were no longer trying to outrun a disease, there was really no point in running at all. This was the only chance.
Dusk turned to darkness as Aldrich screamed himself hoarse. Despite the scholar’s shrieking protestations—furious threats and pleas for mercy, followed by periods of silence and wracking sobs—exhaustion seeped into the lieutenant’s muscles. Fallen leaves were scattered all about him forming a sort of bedding, and he had draped a coat over his shoulders for warmth and further concealment beneath the trees. Soon, he went from watching Aldrich through his rifle’s scope to simply being splayed across the weapon, drowsy.
Then several things happened in rapid succession. There was a crack and the sound of something moving quickly through the leaves and grass. Then a whistling sound, as a tree, pulled taut, swung freely again. As it did, something large collided with the ground; Drexler heard an oof as all the air was driven from its chest.
The anchor tree from the foot snare wasn’t large enough to jerk Bruner upside down and suspend him in midair, but it was enough to yank him off his feet. That was all Drexler needed. He threw his coat to the side and jumped to his feet, pistol in one hand, long knife in the other. As the creature struggled to free its feet from the snare, Drexler put two bullets into its back. The creature that looked like Bruner pitched forw
ard, then rolled slowly onto its back, blinking up at the stars. Drexler walked around it, pistol leveled at the creature, careful not to get too close.
“Do you speak?” he asked. “Can you speak?”
The thing snarled but made no words.
“Very well.”
Drexler had supposed the creature in front of him would be clever enough to forgo the obvious bait of Aldrich, but he needed to make a show of it to outsmart the creature. After all, it had been smart enough to spend days among the expedition, carefully selecting its victims. Waiting for the right opportunity, when a man left the safety of the group to relieve himself or stand guard in the middle of the night, then killing him swiftly, silently, only to then assume his place. Drexler surveyed the impostor, now breathing in shallow puffs, from head to toe. It had even managed to wear Bruner’s uniform properly, to the exacting standards of the SS and Drexler himself.
Drexler saw red then. He raised his Browning and fired until he was satisfied the creature couldn’t protest what came next.
A few minutes later, Drexler strolled into the clearing. Aldrich hurled obscenities at him, then stopped abruptly when he saw the lieutenant was carrying Bruner’s head.
“I had no idea scholars spoke in such a manner.”
“You left me here to die!”
“Nonsense,” said Drexler, lobbing the head at Aldrich’s feet. It rolled with its face to the fire, revealing a bullet hole in its forehead. Aldrich tried to recoil, but his ropes were still staked firmly into the ground.
“You’re an animal!”
Drexler waved the barb away. “I don’t know what this thing is, or if bullets can truly kill it, but I know of nothing on this earth that can live for long without its head.”
Drexler began removing the stakes from the ground and cutting Aldrich from his bonds. Aldrich grew more indignant as the coils of rope fell to the ground. As his limbs were freed, so was his tongue.
“The Ahnenerbe will hear of this, mark my words,” he grumbled, massaging his wrists. “How could you be sure it would come for you and not me, you oaf?”
Dark Screams, Volume 7 Page 12
