The Dragons of Dunkirk

by Damon Alan

They didn’t speak Dwarvish, but they understood that. Their backs disappeared into the darkness as quickly as spooked ponies, fortunately away from the slagged spitter nest.

  He would kill humans. But he would not kill children of any kind. That was his line. And now it was Bordnu’s line too, or Irsu would follow through on his threat.

  Mother would not be pleased.

  Chapter 13 - Detente

  May 24, 1940

  “We’re not getting anywhere,” Timothy yelled from behind the cab. “If we don’t get moving, there won’t be any chance to stay ahead of our new enemy because we’ll be out of fuel.”

  Harry swung the door open and jumped out onto the roof of the Matador. It wasn’t about to move anywhere, so the top was safe enough. Civilians and Allied soldiers swilled around the vehicle, clogging the roads south. At least they were no longer fleeing toward Dunkirk, where they’d be pushed into the sea. Now they were fleeing south from the horror of the dead rising near Arras.

  Hans and Timothy leaned out of the lorry’s bed to speak to Harry.

  “We should go west from here, until we find clear roads,” Hans said. “Then head south again.”

  “Into the German lines?” Timothy argued. “Are you crazy?”

  “You think there are still lines?” Hans scoffed. “Are there British lines now? French lines? You think this isn’t happening to the Germans?”

  “Well, they are more deserv—”

  “Shut it!” Harry barked. “This will get us nowhere. Hans, do you know there is a road west? We burn extra fuel going cross country, and the ground is wet from the storms. We risk being mired down.”

  “The storms!” Timothy said. “They’re connected to these dead men somehow…”

  “We don’t know that, but it makes a lot of sense,” Harry replied after a long pause. “We could head west, and if we stay in the dry zones maybe we won’t encounter the dead.”

  Hans shook his head. “They can leave the rained on areas. It was dry just outside of your encampment to the south, the dead followed us when we left, no problem.”

  As if to accentuate his point, the crowd surged forward, movement coming from behind.

  “Turn this thing off,” Harry ordered Wilkes, leaning down over the roof of the cab to be heard.

  With the engine dead, he could hear screams from the north, and panic was surging through the refugees like a concussion wave from a bomb.

  He stood and raised his binoculars.

  In the distance the skeletal soldiers of WWI marched south, in ranks much like they would have when going to war a quarter century earlier. The ranks broke as they surged against the tail end of the refugee line, and Harry watched in horror as the dead beasts took down the unfortunate souls at the rear of the exodus.

  Men, women, and children… the monsters cut no quarter to any. As he scanned the horizon, he saw a continuous line of the creatures to the east as well.

  “By the God above,” he whispered.

  “What is it?” Tim asked.

  “We have to develop another plan,” Harry responded. “Death isn’t waiting for us to act, he’s forcing our hand.”

  Harry helped Tim up on to the roof of the cab, which bowed a bit under the weight of the two men. He handed the glasses to his gunner’s mate and friend.

  “My God,” Timothy spat out. “Barbarism!”

  “Get in the bed. We need to go now,” Harry said. “Before these civilians start to think we’re their salvation and overwhelm us.”

  Timothy looked shocked but did as he was told. Harry swung himself off the roof, this time on the driver’s side.

  “Get over, Wilkes. I’m driving.”

  They couldn’t go forward or backward, and to the east was more of the creatures. The west had Germans, but that was a better choice than the dead.

  People were surging out into the fields, abandoning the road and the things they’d salvaged from their houses, or possibly stolen from the houses of others. Fortunately, most of Arras area had already evacuated before the dead rose from the ground, or the situation would be even worse.

  Harry started the Matador, then drove it through a hedge into a field of early wheat. The heavy vehicle bogged slightly in the loosely plowed soil but didn’t sink. He carefully worked the clutch and left the lorry in a higher gear so as not to spin the tires.

  They bounced horribly as they ran perpendicular to the plow ruts, but they were getting away. People ran by, faster than the lorry could move on such horrid ground. A fact that probably kept the runners from leaping on the vehicle for safety and dooming them all.

  When the situation couldn’t get any worse, it did.

  A dozen German tanks, Panzer IIs, burst through the hedgerow at the far side of the field.

  “We’re fookin’ done for,” Wilkes spat out, his voice angry.

  “Language, Private Wilkes,” Harry admonished. “Let’s go out with dignity.”

  The civilians ran in all directions, but mainly away from Harry’s team.

  He stopped the Matador. They might as well die sitting comfortably instead of bouncing around like marbles in a sack.

  To his surprise, the PzIIs turned south, followed by a few hundred German infantry on foot. Three much larger tanks, PzIVs from Harry’s estimate although he’d never seen one, headed across the field toward his team.

  The tanks stopped thirty meters distant, their guns at the ready. The top hatch of the right tank opened, and a German officer poked his head up.

  “Was ist deine mission?”

  “He wants to know your mission,” Hans yelled around the cab.

  “Tell him we’re scouting the perimeter of this nightmare,” Harry replied. “Trying to rescue any soldiers we might come across.” It was as good of a lie as any, and technically, they were trying to save themselves.

  Hans told his superior, and the officer identified himself as Lieutenant Colonel Karl Schmidt.

  “Wir haben den gleichen Feind jetzt. Kommen sie zu uns.”

  “He says we have the same enemy. Come with them.”

  Harry’s eyes opened a bit wider. What a ridiculous offer, but he was in no condition to be impolite. “You can Hans, but I don’t see me joining the Huns anytime soon. Even for what’s going on now.”

  Rapid tank fire erupted from the south. The PzIIs were tearing into the line of the dead, parts of bodies flew everywhere. The dead men surged toward the new challenge, but for the moment the German tanks seemed up to the task.

  Hans told the German something long and drawn out, which made the officer frown. Then a box was tossed out of the tank, onto the ground.

  “In der Nähe von Bapaume sind britische Truppen isoliert.”

  “British troops, he doesn’t say how many, are isolated near a town east of here.”

  “What town?”

  Hans asked the officer, but he didn’t know more about it. He was sharing with them a report he’d been given, but not been part of.

  “Thank him,” Harry told his translator.

  “Sehr gut. Wie werden sie.”

  “What did you tell him earlier when he threw out the box?” Harry asked.

  “I told him my unit was destroyed. I’d like to work with you to save other soldiers, German, British, and French. I also asked for more ammunition for my Karabiner 98.”

  The Panzer IVs turned south to join their compatriots, opening fire with their machine guns. The near constant sound of gunfire made it hard to converse, so Harry jumped out and grabbed the box on the ground.

  Ammunition, as expected. He tossed the box to Hans as he climbed back into the cab.

  Maybe the Germans and the Allies could get along well enough to fight the invasion of the supernatural together.

  “Wilkes,” he yelled. “Take us west, to where it’s quiet, so we can talk. The tanks will protect our flank from the dead men for long enough.”

  Wilkes nodded and started up across the field again, bouncing in the ruts. Hans sat back down hurriedly, after nearly b
eing tossed out.

  For some reason that made Harry laugh.

  He was still grinning like a fool as the sound of battle lessened behind them, soon overwhelmed by the complaints of the Matador’s groaning suspension as they beat their way across the field.

  Once past the rough ground, Harry ordered Wilkes to stop. “Miller, break out the radio,” he commanded. “Set it up, let’s hear the situation.”

  Soon their most precious commodity other than ammunition was sitting on the lowered rear gate of the lorry, squealing as Private Miller rotated dials to draw in information from around the continent.

  A French station passed by the dial, nobody in the unit spoke French.

  A British station, probably from the Isles, wavered in and out on the edge of reception.

  “Find something better,” Harry ordered.

  Soon a German station filled the speaker with rich sound, the spitting language practically drenching them from the wireless set.

  “Translate, Hans.”

  “It looks like we’ve come in on the middle. The new Führer has announced a truce has been reached with the British, that all current front lines will be held in place until negotiations can be set up in Paris.”

  “Who’s the new Führer?” Timothy asked.

  “Herr Lutz Schwerin von Krosigk,” Hans said.

  “Who the hell is that?” one of the men asked, his contempt clear for all to hear.

  “I have no idea,” Hans answered, as if the question was sincere. “I have never heard of him.”

  “Well, if he wants to stop the fighting, then he’s okay for now,” Harry said. “We’ll not fire on the Germans unless they fire on us, boys, we don’t want to be the ones who take down the truce.”

  A mix of cheers and groans greeted his proclamation. He marveled at how soon the groaning men forgot the drubbing they were getting from the Germans just a week ago, when it was a valid question whether they’d spend their time in a prisoner of war camp or dead.

  “That’s the order,” Harry demanded. “You’ll like it, because I gave it.”

  “Shouldn’t we be meeting up with the Expeditionary Forces near Paris?” someone else asked.

  “We’ll do so when we have orders to do so,” Harry said. “Miller, see if you can raise an allied HQ. Tell them I’d like to look for our men behind German lines. Ask nicely.”

  “Will do,” Miller replied.

  They waited several hours for an answer, long enough for the Germans to finish their fight with the dead of WWI and move on. The dead would return to the area, that much was certain. They seemed to spread out as if they didn’t want to be that close to each other. Unless the living was around, then they bunched up. Harry set up a guard perimeter to make sure they weren’t ambushed as dusk fell.

  Half an hour passed, and Miller didn’t get a response.

  “We should find a house, Harry, and wait for orders to come in. Maybe find some food in an abandoned building,” Timothy told him.

  “Stellar.” Harry waved at the men to get in the lorry. “Pack it up, Miller. Wilkes, you’re driving. There’s a hamlet to the southeast, take us there. We’ll find a barn to sleep in at the very least.”

  Thirty minutes after that they’d selected a two-story house, abandoned by the owners. After ransacking anything that remained in the kitchen, they occupied the second story for security and moved furniture on the first floor to block easy access up the stairs.

  They lit a fire in the second-floor fireplace and set up a watch. A third would watch three hours, then another third the next three, then the last third the last three. They’d all get six hours sleep if things went as planned.

  In war, nothing goes as planned. It was after midnight when the first sign of trouble started. The fire had burned low, but it still cast out enough light to throw shadows on the walls. The watch team had an oil lamp that they could quickly light.

  They lit it after hearing glass breaking on the first floor.

  Four men guarded the top of the stairwell while the other woke the rest of the unit.

  “So much for six hours,” Timothy complained.

  The sound of wood shattering came not much after, and soon the men were firing into the stairwell. Harry ran to see what was going on. The dead were trying to get past the dresser and couch they’d used to block the stairwell. Both pieces of furniture were severely damaged by the raw strength of the dead and by the rain of bullets.

  “Be careful, take aim, hit them in the head,” Hans advised. “We can’t waste ammo, and only a head shot kills them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I killed one.”

  “I saw it,” Wilkes confirmed. “Hans shot it through the head, just like he said.”

  Harry nodded. “You heard him. Take it slow. Two of us will fire from the top of the stairs, no more. After your MAS is empty, you step aside, and the next man moves in. Reload and go to the back of the line. Miller, you and Jenkins will be checking to see if any have climbed to a window trying to get in.”

  Miller grabbed Harry by the arm as he moved to pass the radioman in the hallway.

  His voice sounded as if he were on edge. “What town is this, Sergeant? Did you see a sign coming in?”

  “Bapaume,” Harry replied.

  Miller’s face fell. “My father fought here in WWI. The Second Battle of Bapaume.” He grabbed Harry’s arm again and led him to a corner before speaking again in whispers. “At least twenty thousand died here, Harry. On both sides.”

  It was Harry’s turn to be aghast. Arras wasn’t the only battlefield. Battles were fought all over northern France. Harry and his men were traversing a nation sized minefield of the dead. And they were in the middle of the threat.

  With a sinking heart he went to check on the men fighting at the stairs, and to see if they were holding up. If they started firing erratically, all would be lost. Effective ammo usage was their only hope as much of their spare ammo was in the lorry.

  He’d told them the right way to conserve what they had. It was an efficient system. The dead were terribly frightening as enemies, but not smart at all. How they’d known to attack this house was speculation, but maybe it was the smoke from the fire. Maybe it was light flickering in the windows. Or maybe they could sense the living.

  Harry walked back into the room where Miller was and looked out the window.

  Hundreds, maybe thousands of dead circled the house. The ones nearby looked up at him with their half-formed faces, then reached to try to drag him down toward them despite being a dozen feet away. His heart sank further, as he pulled the curtains closed. “Miller, if you hear something at the window, yell. Otherwise keep working on that wireless. Get us some news.”

  “On it, Sergeant. If we had a larger aerial, that would help. But I’ll make do.”

  Harry threw the mattress off the bed and propped the metal spring base up against the wall. “Hooking into that help any?” he asked.

  “Genius,” Miller said as he ran a wire to the spring set. “I’ll be able to set up a directional antenna with that idea, I believe. Thanks, Sergeant.”

  It wouldn’t do much good, Harry knew. Even if they used their bullets perfectly, there probably wouldn’t be enough.

  Then it would be bayonets, for those that had them. That might be good for one more kill, before a man was brought down by the clawing bones.

  At least the dead weren’t climbing on each other to get to the upper story windows. It was as if they were queuing up to see a movie, each waiting somewhat patiently for their turn to enter the house and take a bullet in the head.

  Behind him he heard a trigger pull release a firing pin to click on an empty chamber. Someone yelled at the man with the empty gun to get the hell out of the way. The soldiers were stressed, but who wouldn’t be? He couldn’t tell who was screaming, the panic distorted their voice too much.

  He got up to return to the stairwell so he could raise morale and restore order.

  Hopefull
y his own morale would hold out, because it was going to be a long night.

  He looked down at his pistol and resolved to save the bullets in it, and his reload, for the team. And one for himself.

  Chapter 14 - Trapped

  May 25, 1940

  Surprisingly there was no issue with the amount of ammo Harry’s squad had, because the dead clogged up the stairwell to the point they couldn’t get past. As their re-stilled corpses fell to the incline of the stairs, the next attackers in line weren’t smart enough to remove the bodies that fell in front of them, but merely tried to climb over.

  Soon, with an accurate shot from the soldiers, that next attacker fell on the remains of those who came before, building a wall of bones and the shredded cloth of Great War uniforms.

  Once the wall of gore was built, the dead didn’t seem to notice the living among Harry’s squad at all, unless someone made a noise. Then there’d be dissonant concert of whistling airways and grunts on the first floor, until his men were quiet for a few minutes.

  Then they’d be forgotten. That meant they couldn’t just feel the presence of the living. Something had to key them to it and keep their attention. Valuable information.

  Harry tiptoed into the bedroom-become-radio-room to tell Miller to turn the wireless to the minimum volume.

  As he approached the doorway, he noticed a strange reddish light illuminating the walls he could see within.

  Another terror was something he wasn’t sure he could deal with right now. Cautiously he peeked around the door frame, and his mouth fell open.

  Miller was sitting on a chair, with his hand out before him, palm up. An orange light danced in the radioman’s hands, bobbing up and down, turning in on itself like a fire with no place to go.

  “Miller,” Harry whispered. “What is that? Get rid of it.”

  The private looked up at him with awe. “I made this, Sergeant.”

  Harry braced his arms against the cold in the room. How did it get so cold? It wasn’t that cold outside. Miller didn’t seem to notice. “You made it? Have you gone balmy?”

  “It was getting dark, I wished I had an electric torch so I could see to tune the squelch. Some sort of feeling I had inside me told me to extend my arm out, and when I did this appeared.”