Leaning forward, pressing his nose against the glass, Peter peered into the cell.
Mina was hammering at the lid of the coffin with a rhythmic banging, a percussion accompaniment to the screams of the doomed men. With one last titanic shove, the remaining bolts snapped and the coffin lid flew open with a deep metallic boom. The men fell into silence as Mina’s head rose above the rim, and Peter winced at the sight of her face. Most of the skin had dissolved away, revealing glistening muscle and sinew. She slowly looked around and sniffed at the air like a hound with a nose that had been reduced to bloody cartilage. One of the men whimpered, and her head snapped around, her gaze fixing on him.
In a flash she was out of the coffin, straddling his body with her legs. Twisting and kicking, he tried to get her off, but his efforts were hopeless. She gripped his head just as she had done to Peter. Her hands began to glow a deep red, then grew to a brighter orange, then yellow, flickering like hot coals. The man shrieked in agony, the sounds amplified by the speaker in the observation room. Mina tilted her head back, mouth open, and her body shuddered in what could have easily been mistaken for sexual ecstasy.
Peter felt like vomiting. He wanted to look away, but his eyes refused to obey his mind.
“Behold the perfect soldier,” Kleist whispered beside him, “She replenishes her own strength even as she destroys the enemy.”
“Yes,” Peter managed, forcing down his bile, “that’s quite…impressive.”
In what he guessed might have been forty seconds, but not longer than a minute, Mina lifted her hands from the man’s head and took a deep, ragged breath.
“Mein Gott,” Peter breathed as he saw the body. The corpse was little more than a desiccated husk that, had it been wrapped in strips of cloth, could have easily been mistaken for an Egyptian mummy.
Mina turned to the next victim. With an urgent sigh, she scuttled over to him and straddled him as she had the first man. Ignoring his muffled cries and frenzied thrashing, she gripped his head and the shrieking began again.
“Interesting,” Kleist murmured as he glanced at the clock.
“What?”
“By this time, our last subject had already fed on the first two and was working on the third. Mina appears not to be as hungry. Perhaps she requires less sustenance?” He tapped his lips with a finger, then picked up a clipboard and jotted down a few notes.
The second victim stopped struggling. His eyes drooped shut and his body went limp as Mina sucked his life away. Peter watched, chained to the sight by morbid fascination, as the man’s body shriveled away right before his eyes.
Finished with her second victim, Mina released him and sat back against the side of the coffin, staring at the corpse with a blank expression. The fire had gone from her eyes and her hands had returned to mere flesh.
After a few moments she lifted her hands to her eyes, as if staring at the blood of those innocent men. “Oh, no…no, no, no…”
The last of the sacrifices looked at her, his eyes bulging with fear. He shook his head and tried to push himself away from her.
She looked at him, then at the two corpses slumped beside him as if seeing them for the first time, and screamed. Looking down at herself, seeing the horrid condition of her body, she screamed even louder.
Picking herself up, she ran to a corner of the room and curled up, her back to the world, and began to make a keening noise that tore at Peter’s heart.
“Look, Peter!” Kleist, oblivious to Mina’s anguish, tugged at his sleeve. “Mein Gott, look at her skin! See how it is already healing? Even our last test subject did not heal that quickly! This is amazing!” He rapidly scrawled notes on his clipboard, pausing every few moments to stare at Mina, a look of rapt amazement on his face.
As if by some incomprehensible magic, Mina’s skin was growing back right before their eyes. Most of her body had been nothing more than bloody meat when she had emerged from the coffin, but the glistening red and pink of the underlying flesh was being rapidly covered by layers of skin. The lower layers were little more than a membrane, but they quickly built up to a beautiful porcelain veneer.
Peter left the monitoring room and stood in front of the door to Mina’s cell. He pointed to a stack of freshly laundered lab coats in the lab’s supply area. “Give me one of those,” he snapped to one of the technicians. The man quickly grabbed one and handed it to Peter as if it were on fire. To the guards, Peter said, “Open the door.”
“But, sir…” The squad leader gulped. Seeing the blazing fury in Peter’s eyes, he nodded. “Yes, sir.” The other men formed a semicircle around the door, assault rifles, machine guns, and even a Panzerfaust antitank rocket held at the ready as the squad leader spun the wheel. With a heavy thunk, the bolts drew back and the sergeant pulled the door open just enough for Peter to step through. As soon as Peter cleared the threshold, the squad leader slammed the door shut behind him and latched it.
“Sturmbannführer!” Kleist’s voice echoed from a speaker set high in the wall over the observation ports. Peter turned to the port hole through which the doctor was peering at him. “Are you insane? Get out of there!”
Ignoring him, Peter stepped closer to Mina. The man who was still chained to the wall made noises to get Peter’s attention, but Peter put a finger to his lips and shook his head. The man quieted, his frightened eyes darting between Peter and Mina.
Coming within arm’s reach of her, Peter awkwardly took a knee. “Mina,” he whispered.
She spasmed as if he’d hit her with a jolt of electricity. With short twists of her neck, she turned to stare at him. If the eyes were the window to the soul, he thought, then hers bordered on madness.
“It’s me, Peter. Do you recognize me?”
She blinked, then nodded in a twitchy, almost mechanical movement. Her body shuddered.
“Will you let me put this on you?” He slowly held up the lab coat, turning it to and fro so she could see that it was nothing more than it appeared to be.
After a moment, her head made a slight jerk up and down.
Slowly, carefully, he draped the lab coat over her naked body. Her skin was entirely healed now, smooth and perfect. The scar on her face was gone as if it had never existed. Even most of the blood that had seeped from her exposed flesh had been absorbed into the skin as it regrew. Her hair, however, was something else. It was still matted and streaked with rapidly drying blood and gobs of her own melted skin.
“I…I killed them,” she whispered. “Those men.” A tear trickled from the corner of her eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“Do you remember anything from the gate?” Peter asked.
She shuddered. “Dark things,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Nightmares. Endless terror.” She pulled the lab coat tighter around her. “I fell forever, Peter,” she told him. “I fell through a universe of angry, hate-filled stars, where the vastness in between is an infinite sea of mindless rage. What I was on this side was torn apart, body and soul, and recreated cell by cell.” She giggled as a fit of hysteria threatened to overwhelm her. She put her hand in her mouth and bit down hard enough to draw blood.
“I’m so sorry,” he told her softly. “Not that it’s any consolation, but it looks like I’ll be finding out what it’s like for myself soon enough.”
Whipping around, she took him by the arms, her eyes now open and pleading. “You mustn’t go through. You mustn’t!”
“Mina,” he gasped. “Mina, let go! You’re going to break my arms!”
She released him, but as he rubbed his arms, where deep bruises would soon rise, she put her hands around his head. “I could give you the mercy that you denied me,” she whispered as her hands began to squeeze.
“No,” he said, trying in vain to pull her hands away. Her grip was impossibly strong. “Mina, stop! If you don’t, Kleist will flood the room with chemicals and you’ll burn! Please. Stop.”
Her hands relaxed, and she bent forward, putting her forehead against his ches
t. Peter put his arms around her. She was shivering, but after a few moments he could feel her begin to relax, if only slightly.
“Isn’t this a touching sight.”
Peter looked up to see von Falkenstein staring at him through the porthole next to Kleist’s. Baumann’s face filled another. Peter heard him snigger.
Mina snapped her head up and bared her teeth, growling like a wild animal.
“Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Peter told her. Getting up, he went to the door. Drawing his Luger, he rapped the butt against the thick metal three times. A moment later the door opened, and he stepped outside, holstering his weapon. The guards quickly closed the door behind him.
Returning to the observation room, he ignored Baumann and confronted von Falkenstein, who stood there, fists clenched, seething with anger.
Pasting a bewildered expression on his face, Peter said, “Herr Professor. You’re angry with me. May I ask why?”
“Why?” Von Falkenstein took a step forward, and Peter resisted the urge to take a step back. “Because you were in there cavorting with her!”
“Sir,” Peter said reasonably, “I was only trying to calm her. Even though she’s a traitor, we may be able to get useful information from her about her transit that may help with mine and those who follow me. I believe we have a greater chance of doing that by using a carrot rather than a stick.” He forced himself to take a step closer to von Falkenstein, bringing the two men nearly nose to nose. “I never like to go into battle uninformed, sir. For me, this is nothing more than reconnaissance. Information gathering.”
Von Falkenstein snorted. “And you believe she’ll just tell you if you ask nicely?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I believe she trusts me.” He shrugged. “She may not, of course, but in that case we’ve lost nothing. But we might gain quite a bit.”
“He’s right.” Equally surprised, they both turned to Kleist. “Our previous subjects gave us nothing useful, even under extreme coercion at the hands of Brigadeführer Baumann.” Kleist sniffed, then rubbed his nose. “Knowing more about what lies on the other side could indeed help us further refine our existing trajectory coordinates, or even reveal new potential capabilities without time-wasting testing.” He folded his arms across his chest and scowled at von Falkenstein. “Further study of the Einstein-Rosen bridge and its properties will never tell us these things. Down here is where the key discoveries are to be made.”
Peter moved to one of the portholes and looked in on Mina, who was still huddled in the corner.
Von Falkenstein turned to him. “You believe she will be willing to help us, even after trying to sabotage our work here?”
“No, sir,” Peter answered. “But I believe she thinks I care for her enough to trust me.”
“And do you?” Baumann asked.
Peter snorted. “Of course not.”
“Very well, then,” von Falkenstein conceded. “I leave this matter in your hands. But don’t think for a moment that she will escape my vengeance for her treachery.”
“So you’ll permit me additional time to interrogate her?”
“You can have all the time you wish,” von Falkenstein said as he and Baumann moved toward the door, “after your own transit. You can compare notes with her like school children.” His gaze hardened. “But there will be no more delays, now that our saboteur has been apprehended and we know the transformation process works. Once Hoth has reset his equipment and the capacitors are fully charged, you will be going through, followed immediately by the men chosen to join you. The Reich has waited long enough.” To Kleist, he said, “Prepare him.”
Peter stood there, stunned, as von Falkenstein left the observation room. After giving him one last smirk, Baumann departed with a chuckle.
“Don’t worry, Peter,” Kleist said from behind him. “You won’t be going through the gate.”
Turning around, Peter saw that the doctor was holding a gun, the muzzle pointed at Peter’s chest.
Kleist grinned. “We have other plans for you.”
ENEMY OF MY ENEMY
Peter’s blood ran cold. “What is the meaning of this, Herr Doktor?”
“The meaning is quite clear, you young fool.” A beatific smile spread across his face. “There is soon to be a change of leadership here, and there is no place for you in the new order.”
“Baumann,” Peter breathed. Kleist nodded. “When the Reichsführer hears of this,” Peter warned, “he will…”
“…do nothing!”
Kleist’s shout caught Peter completely off-guard and he involuntarily took a step back, wiping a bit of the doctor’s spittle from his face.
“He will do nothing,” Kleist went on, his voice back to normal now, “because he and the other boot-lickers like him will be dead and gone. Only those who truly serve the Führer will be allowed to survive. The Third Reich will not last a thousand years, it will endure forever, led by a cadre of immortals! The Brigadeführer will soon be going through the gate. Once he returns, transformed, we will send his men through in a rapid wave. Instead of bringing each one down here to feed afterward, we will fill the lower half of the cavern with those Organisation Todt swine to sate the hunger of the travelers before…”
“Listen to me,” Peter said, cutting him off. “Baumann will only lead the Reich to utter destruction. An army of powerful immortals unleashed upon the world will be the least of it. If the gate is destabilized…”
“Enough.” Kleist raised the gun higher, pointing it at Peter’s face. “You know nothing. Just be glad that Brigadeführer Baumann wishes you to live. You are useful, if not worthy.” He took a step closer. “Now turn around and do as I tell you, or…”
While Peter had never experienced close combat in battle, he wasn’t exactly a stranger to fighting. He and Mannie had made something of a hobby of it, much to his mother’s chagrin and his father’s secret delight. Peter had gone on to become a competent, if not exemplary, boxer in high school and university. He had given up the sport after being shot, but the muscle memory imprinted by countless hours in the ring remained.
Snapping his left arm up, Peter knocked Kleist’s gun hand aside before pivoting his torso to the left, lending his body’s momentum to the right jab he landed on the doctor’s exposed chin. Kleist made a surprised gack sound as his head snapped back and his glasses flew off. Stunned, he let go the pistol, which clattered to the floor. Stepping forward, Peter delivered a series of blows to Kleist’s undefended midsection, driving the spindly man back against the wall. A brutal left uppercut slammed the doctor’s head against one of the portholes, and Kleist’s eyes rolled back to expose the whites as he slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Panting with the unaccustomed exertion, Peter looked through the porthole to see Mina staring back at him. She put a hand to the glass. “Run,” she whispered, her voice carried by the speaker.
“I’m going to get you out of there,” he told her. Remembering that he had unloaded his own pistol, he snatched up Kleist’s gun from the floor. Peter opened the door of the observation room, only to be confronted by two surprised SS soldiers who must have been waiting for Kleist to bring him out.
With reflexes drummed into him by Bob before they had set out on this ill-fated adventure, Peter shot them both in the chest, then again in the head to make sure they were dead. Reaching down, he tossed away the pistol and grabbed one of the far more powerful assault rifles.
One of Kleist’s assistants reached for a red button on the wall, an alarm switch. Peter shot him down, but it was too late. A klaxon began to hoot throughout the complex even as the man’s bullet riddled body slid to the floor, leaving a wide streak of scarlet on the pristine white wall. The other men and women fled in a panicked rush, and the corridors echoed with their screams and the shouts of the soldiers on guard duty as they charged past the fleeing scientists toward the laboratory.
Peter moved to Mina’s cell door, but was driven back by a hail of bullets fired by the arriving guards
. He dove behind a desk as the laboratory was torn apart by gunfire.
Popping up for a moment, he fired a burst over the desk. Rewarded with a cry of pain from one of his opponents, he dove back down to the floor to dodge the return fire.
Bullets hammered into and through the desk, piercing metal and splintering wood. Shattered glass and noxious liquids showered down on him as he desperately squirmed backward, putting more equipment between himself and the guards. He had to get out before he was overwhelmed. Mina’s cell lay beyond a no-man’s land bereft of cover. He would never make it.
More equipment was blasted apart by another fusillade, as were the jars containing Kleist’s gruesome trophies.
A soul-ripping screech filled the lab, a sound so terrifying that the soldiers held their fire. Peering around the corner of a desk, Peter saw the mutilated body of the woman, Subject 98-7, freed from her glass prison, flopping on the floor like a fish. Before his disbelieving eyes, tissue from her amputated legs and arms began to grow, her body miraculously repairing itself.
Those few timeless seconds were shattered as the guards opened fire on her, peppering her with bullets, the gunshots overpowering her rage-filled wail. While the bullets pierced her flesh and shattered bone, her body healed both the old damage and the new at an astonishing rate. She fixed the guards with eye sockets that now held the ghostly shells, like soft egg whites, of regenerating eyeballs.
Peter coughed as an eye-watering mix of gun smoke, ammonia, and formaldehyde fumes coursed through the lab.
Formaldehyde. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his lighter. Flicking the flame into life, he lobbed it over the desk behind which he was hiding toward the now-destroyed specimen display and the writhing immortal woman, who even now was trying to squirm toward her tormentors.
With a deep whoosh, that half of the lab erupted in flames as the formaldehyde caught fire. The woman’s wailing turned to an agonized scream, accompanied by surprised cries and curses from the soldiers.
The Black Gate Page 17
