by Peter Sacco
There was no sound coming from within that side of the building. Nagle would enter through this door. He put the stethoscope away and put the tiny transistor to the door. He held it there for a few second before hitting a few buttons. The device would tell him if the door was wired. It wasn’t. This was going to be easier than he thought. Actually, it was too easy. This worried Nagle.
Nagle used a tiny shiny instrument resembling a scalpel to cut through the lock of the metal door. He had the door opened in eight seconds. He definitely had not lost his touch for getting in through locked doors. This door was nothing compared to what he had jimmied in the past. Nagle used to be one of the service’s best in the art of picking locks and safe cracking. Nagle had made the art into a competition. When he wasn’t challenging others for best time, he was challenging himself. Everything in life was a competition for him.
Slowly he pulled the door open and peered in through the crack. Inside was as dark as outside. Slowly, he crept through the door and closed it gingerly behind him. He was in and he really couldn’t see shit. He would have to wait a few moments before his eyes adjusted to the new quality of light, or lack of it.
Nagle observed several dimly lit areas. One of them had to be where the warhead was housed he thought. The blasted building had to be a couple thousand square feet. He had a sizable area to cover without being seen. It was at this point he should have left the building and called for backup. He didn’t. The adrenaline was pumping too hard, racing through his entire body. He was the last batter in the ninth inning who wanted to pop the big fly for a trip around the bases. This was his moment. He wanted to be the hero. He was going to stop Monger.
The first dimly lit area had nothing but large gas tanks. There was everything from hydrogen, helium, propane, and crates which had SOLID CARBON DIOXIDE labeled on the sides. Nagle chuckled to himself. Perhaps Monger was planning to put New York state into a fog. It would be like that rock group he loved as a kid, Kiss. They would come out on the stage decked out in makeup, leather, heels and strut around in the dry ice. Monger was about to do something worse than a Kiss concert.
The second lit area was larger. There was equipment Nagle had never laid eyes on before. As he studied the equipment, he noticed all the instructions and warnings were in German. For the life of him, modern technology had thrown him a curve ball. This was definitely state of the art and unique. Hundreds of tiny rubber couplings jutted out of steel barrels. The equipment reminded him of some prop from an alien movie. There were also long shiny rods, pure silver. Then there appeared to be several space like suits made out of a thick substance. They had to be using this stuff for working on the warhead to protect them from any loss of radiation.
At the other end of the building he heard small chatter. There was a conversation going on. Quietly, Nagle crept over. He was amazed at the amount of space between exhibits. A trailer sized crate rested where the men were talking. The crate was closed in except for one side, which had been opened. Nagle watched the men talk for hours it seemed. He could feel the adrenaline racing again. A pond of sweat swelled up at the base of his ass by now. He could feel the salty taste of his sweat trickling into his mouth. Nagle finally saw one of the men. He was a large overweight man who was walking towards the front of the building. Not long after the large man disappeared, an older white-haired man hobbled slightly in the same tracks as his partner. Nagle crept over to the crate and took a closer look. There was some sort of bubbling sound coming from the crate. It reminded him of the filtration system in his first aquarium. It use to be a very relaxing sound. This situation that he was in was anything but. It had to be the warhead.
Slowly, Nagle examined the crate. If anyone was still in the crate, Nagle wanted him to be surprised by himself, rather than vice versa. Nagle took his tightrope act alongside the wall of the crate. Once around the corner, he slowly peered inside the opening mouth. He saw what looked like a large switch board. The bubbling sound was now louder. It was coming from the far corner of the crate. Nagle froze in disappointment. There was no warhead! The crate was labeled with confidential and top secret signs. There were also several tiny Swiss and German insignias on the walls of the crate. This had to be it. But there was no warhead! Perhaps it was somewhere else. Nagle still wanted to examine the crate.
Quickly, he studied the technology. It made little or no sense. This equipment was being used for anything but nuclear arms. The bubbling sound was growing louder as he drew closer to it. He could now see the bubbling coming from a large shiny, silver oval shaped tank. It resembled a large pea pod. Whatever this tank was, all of the equipment in the crate was feeding into it. Nagle heard a sound coming from somewhere in the warehouse. It was someone talking. He stopped for a moment to see if the voice was coming closer. There was no sound. Whoever it was had left, or was on the other side of the building. Perhaps it was Monger. He didn’t give a shit at this moment. He wanted to see what was inside of the tank. Then he would definitely leave.
Nagle continued his way towards the bubbling call. It’s melodic sound was hypnotic. It was as if whatever was in the tank was drawing him like a magnet. Nagle arrived at the tank and tapped on its thin, hollowed body. Something within the tank caused the sound to resonate back towards the wall Nagle tapped. What the hell did Monger have in there?
The tank stood about seven feet high and had a circumference of around four feet. Slowly, Nagle proceeded around the tank. There was a glass door but it was frosted white from the cold. Nagle drew closer to the glass, with his nose almost touching. He had to wipe the cloud from the glass which his breath had left. Peering in, Nagle could barely make out the features of a human face. He could make out dark hair and nothing more. He had to open the door. Nagle debated this thought momentarily. Curiosity killed the cat!
Nagle stepped back and slowly grasped the frigid silver handle. It was so cold the skin from the palm of his hand stuck like glue. Nagle pulled his hand off of the handle as some of his flesh was not as willing. Blood dripped from the palm of his right hand. He winced as he wiped his hand on his pant leg. This time he was prepared. Nagle grasped the handle and slowly tugged at the door. A seal was broken as the door reluctantly popped open slowly. The door felt so light in his hands. It reminded him of opening a mason jar and struggling with the lid.
Cold vapor was escaping out the small open gap. The air was so cold it caused Nagle’s nasal passage ways to quickly dry up and glue shut. He could barely keep his eyes open as they too were drying. Just as Nagle was about to shut the door he felt lightening hit the back of his neck. Slowly, he felt his body slither down the closing door of the tank. His weight had closed the door tightly. His chin hit the base of the tank as he lay on the floor. He could taste the warm, coppery taste of blood flowing on his bitten tongue.
He was slowly drifting away. He could barely make out the letters at the base of the tank. He was definitely delirious. The letters could not be real. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. Nagle must have gone back to the room and fallen asleep. This all had to be a dream. There was no warhead. And let’s face it. The letters and swastika on the tank were not real. Only in his dream could it read HEIL FUHRER.
***
It was December thirty-first, New Year’s Eve. The party was growing louder on the snow chilled streets of New York City. The big red apple was soon ready to make its biggest drop ever. The streets were really rocking.
Terry Nagle woke up to the sounds of the New Year’s Eve bash. In front of him the volume on the television set blared. His head felt as if it had been closed in an elevator door and transported into another dimension. The pain was intense, disappearing momentarily after he realized he wasn’t dreaming, and yes, he was in fact handcuffed to a metal chair. Gently, Nagle moved his head from side to side trying to figure out where he was and what the hell had happened. It was not coming back to him. It was just too damn foggy. He remembered going to the warehouse and
that was about it. Wait! He had found something that was bubbling. The sound was very hypnotic. It was... Then boom! It hit him like a soccer ball in the crotch. Into his consciousness sprang the memory of a Nazi insignia and the words “Heil Fuhrer”. The tank. The dark haired man in the tank. They in had Adolf Hitler in that tank! It couldn’t be. It was impossible!
Nagle began to piece it together just as the door to the small room burst open. It was Monger. He was dressed as a Nazi commanding officer. Monger glanced at Nagle and then at the television.
“Glad you could join us, Nagle. Wasn’t quite sure you were going to make it.”
Nagle ogled Monger. “You’re a sick bastard!”
“Surely a man of your vast superiority and wisdom should like my creative mind.”
“Who’s in the tank?” asked Nagle.
“Who do you think?” asked Monger with a sheepish grin.
“It couldn’t be. He burned to death. Him and his wife.”
“That’s what he let the world believe. The Swiss have been taking care of him ever since. He was ahead of his time back then. But his time has come again. The time is now.”
“What time?”
“The time for the world to purge itself of all its sin.”
Nagle closed his eyes and grimaced from the pain at the back of his head. He could not believe this was real. How could it be? He wasn’t supposed to get caught. No way. “How is it possible he could still be?”
Monger pressed his lips together and made a loud smacking sound. “Quite easy, Nagle. It’s called cryogenics,” he said nodding his head. “ And yes, it really does work.”
Nagle gazed at Monger in astonishment.
“Imagine that, Nagle! Dinosaurs were frozen long after Hitler. But it is Hitler who has returned. The first to ever come back.”
“Are you telling me he is alive? “ Nagle swallowed.
“Alive and well,” Monger snickered.
“It can’t be!”
“Oh, it’s true! He just had his first warm meal in over fifty years. Not bad for a stiff,” cracked Monger.
“But why?” asked a beleaguered Nagle.
Monger walked closer to Nagle and sighed. “Because the world needs him now.”
“The man was a monster.”
“And the man is still a monster. The world is a monster. People are monsters. We created him. All the strife and hatred in the world today. Don’t tell me he is the only monster to have ever walked the face of the earth. Things haven’t gotten better since he last ruled. Hey, don’t you think it’s fair to give the guy a second chance and let him finish the job he started?”
“It’s sacrilege, Monger.”
“He is our savior.”
“You’re sick, Monger. You’re just as sick as he was.”
“The world is sick. The world is getting what they asked for.”
“And you think the White House is going to stand by and watch your freak show?”
“You’ll see.”
The countdown on television started. The ball dropped and crashed to the ground. The New Year was welcomed in as the ever ancient song rang through the streets of New York. Nagle stared at the television set and Monger. Monger stared quietly. He smiled at Nagle.
“You won’t get too far, Monger. They’ll stop you.”
“You just watch.”
Monger pointed to the television screen and started to laugh. He walked over to the set and turned the volume up. A young female news reporter appeared on the screen. She looked very grim and began crying. On the bottom of the television screen, the words LIVE FROM WASHINGTON appeared. She began her report.
“At twelve midnight tonight, both the President of the United States and his Vice President were assassinated. Several prominent members of Congress and the Pentagon were also killed. We don’t have many details, but sources close to us claim the United States has been taken over by W.A.S.P. Sources also claim something more than bizarre to believe. Members of W.A.S.P. claim within the next few minutes, their new party leader, and new leader of the United States will hold a press conference from the White House steps. As of right now, thousands of supporters, many of them current government officials, are gathered awaiting the speech. We are now going to the White House as the press conference is about to begin.”
On the television, a man in a black overcoat approached the microphone. It was Stephen Fielding, State Secretary. He mumbled a few words into the microphone. Nagle did not understand what was said as it was in German. Within moments, the new leader of W.A.S.P. stood on the steps of the White House. Adolph Hitler cocked his right hand up at his side, palm forward and saluted the people.
“I’ve seen enough you sick son of a bitch!”
Monger blows Nagle a kiss and pulls out a revolver from his coat. “I know you have,” answered Monger.
“You’ll never get away with this.”
“I already have. I’ve grown tired of this game.”
Just as Nagle was about to swear at him, he shot him between the eyes. “Checkmate.”
Chapter Ten
The Bloody Butcher
Dave Emerson, a very mature seventeen year old, agreed to meet the boys at the drive-in diner after school. Being a studious valedictorian wannabee, Dave chose to attend last class calculus instead of skipping and getting to the diner early with the other guys. The diner had been the in-place in the small town of Mapletown. The mall had once been the hang out but once the diner opened the teens were in their glory. Anyone who had a decent car had it parked out front. Anyone who had a decent-looking chick was there too. Anyone who was hard-up for any kind of action hung around the diner. Fittingly enough, the place had been called THE DINER.
Dave almost broke an ankle running to his father’s jalopy. He had to get to the diner as fast as possible. Already, he probably had lost some status amongst his peers for showing up late and attending school, of all places. The blue bomber had been his car to drive to school since his father had received the privilege of driving a company car. Even though the car was not a sporty car, it wasn’t too bad for a four door. Almost immediately, Dave rolled down the windows and let the cool September air blow through his thick mop of curly brown hair. His blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight as he adjusted his shades in the rearview mirror before backing up. If this was to be his lucky day, Beth Knight, the pretty redhead in his history class would show up. She had just dumped her boyfriend, Stu Hargrove, captain of the school wrestling team and grade A asshole. Hopefully, he would not be there.
The circular-shaped diner with its matching circular-shaped parking lot was packed with teen-mobiles. The half red bricked, half-windowed building had been a throwback to the fifties. There was enough neon around the place to cause even the blindest of the blind to squint. Many local citizens worried the diner would be a breeding ground for delinquency.
Dave was happy to get a parking place right next to a jeep belonging to his pal Darnel, better known as pick it and flick it. This dubious name had been bestowed upon Darnel after refusing to heed to the warnings of his buddies to stop picking his nose and tossing it at them. Darnel had nose-picking down to a science. He once demonstrated to the boys how using one’s little finger instead of the index finger proved more successful in plunging out deeper deposits. Darnel claimed one could use the thinness and curvature of the finger to generate greater leverage. All of this physics aptitude from an eighteen year old who was still taking grade ten math. The actual flick it part of the nickname came from the times Darnel would have the deposit on his finger and try desperately to launch it by flicking it off to no avail. Hence the name and he still played the game. Darnel had also been eyeing one of the girls from the history class, Donna Rath, and he had to sacrifice his nose antics if he ever had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting her. Boy, the things one had to do for l
ove.
Dave did not even have the car parked a minute when the boys came around the corner toward his car. There was Darnel, the first to arrive. He had his ball cap on backwards to hide the short haircut his father had made him get for getting an A- in summer school. As long as he stayed under the old man’s roof, he had to do what the old man said. According to the old man, the long hair was disturbing the firing of neurons in his brain which in turn was causing him to fail school. Perhaps it could have been the fact that Dave did not give a rat’s ass about school because all he ever wanted to do was play lead guitar in a band, preferably Van Halen. Let’s face it, Eddie couldn’t last forever the family and all.
Behind Darnel were identical twins, Tim and Tom Dexter. Besides having identical features, they also had very similar mannerisms. Both of the boys had played for the school football team. Normally, they would have been at practice this Friday afternoon. Since they destroyed the team over in the next district Thursday, the coach gave the team the day off. From first glance it was very difficult to tell the boys apart. Tim was a little smaller and had a couple of scars on the right side of his face he had received from a fall as a child. The Dexter parents were consoled by others asserting the fall had been the Lord’s blessing of making it easier to tell one from the other. Dave had used the scars to distinguish between the two when he first met them. After getting to know them, they were like night and day. Tim had always been the life of the party and very loud. Tom, on the other hand had always been quiet and reserved. Tom was the oldest of the twins by twelve minutes. Tim had always referred to Tom as his older brother and always introduced him at parties as just that.
