The Berserkers

by Roger Elwood

  Jake felt a deep fear stir within himself as he realized that the soldier had not died but had been left victim to the terrors of the freezing countryside. Slowly the man got to his knees and feet and started somehow trudging through the snow. Jake tried to will the man on, his own legs like iced lead as he too felt conscious of pushing through the clinging snowdrifts.

  The man cried out and shivered, his whole body wracked by sobs. The last sounds that he made as he finally collapsed were strangled, rasping breaths in his throat. Even his breath was frozen. Jake shuddered as he saw the man fall for the last time, knowing that he was now dead, not far from the warmth of a farmhouse. He could have made it, but not without the coat.

  Jake woke up, stiff from the cold, but with an icy sweat of terror coating his brow. AH around him the air of his room was filled with the stentorian sound of that death-rattle breathing…rasping, rasping. Jake sat up, trembling as much with fear as with cold. He had previously laughed at so-called psychic phenomena, but this sound was crystal clear. The bedclothes were not scattered about as they had been before, though they did appear to have been pulled and tugged, but his fingers were knotted in them, so that they were tom and shredded badly in places.

  The coat, however, was bundled up in a corner, as though it had been carelessly flung there. The breathing, meanwhile, went on. At first Jake thought it must be coming from outside the house, a freak trick of the wind, but it was coining from inside. It began to build up—unmistakably the labored breathing of a dying man. Jake stifled a scream; the air felt liquid, as though writhing and coiling itself thickly about the walls.

  Finally a climax came. The coat began to shake, as though being worried by a silent terrier. Jake watched in speechless, wide-eyed shock as the coat shook and shook, flew feet across the floor and at last flopped lifelessly to the carpet. As this happened, the sound stopped abruptly, as though someone had suddenly switched off the radio.

  For some time Jake eyed the coat. Then he inadvertently broke the silence with a sneeze and the noise seemed to restore his shattered senses to some degree of normalcy. He let his head bump back onto the pillow, wrapping himself up again. It was not so cold now, but still bad. It was still the middle of the night and slowly, though against his will, he began to fall asleep again, and this time he was not troubled by the dream.

  The next morning, still thick with his cold, Jake insisted on getting up, though he had no intention of going out. His coat was in the middle of the floor, but to Jake it now seemed in the vivid light of day that he had imagined everything that had occurred. The sun dispelled all fears, though he was haggard and unwell.

  As he forced himself to eat the steaming bowl of porridge that his mother had prepared—all the time fussing that he should still be in bed—a thought struck him. For the first time since it had began, he was able to visualize in daylight hours parts of his recurring dream. He pondered over them, realizing that there was something important in the dream that had not dawned on him, something intangible that he could not put his finger on.

  All that day it haunted him. What was it about the dream he had missed? What was it trying to tell him? It had got to such a pitch that he was frightened to doze off in case the dream gripped him anew.

  “Jake! Phone’s ringing!” bawled his mother, breaking his armchair reverie. “Answer it, will you, dear? Only I’ve got me hands in a basin of dough.”

  “Okay, I’ll answer it.” He sat on the old sofa by the phone, wincing at a draft that cut at him from somewhere.

  “Hello,” he said sleepily into the receiver.

  “You sound cheerful,” chirped a voice. It was Lyn, whom he had almost forgotten.

  “Oh, hi,” he replied uncertainly. Last time they had spoken she had seemed convinced he was using a fake cold to shake her off.

  “So you are down with the dreaded lurgi after all. You sound really bunged up. I just thought I’d phone to see if the patient was accepting visitors,” she said, sounding concerned.

  “Thanks. But you’d better not. You might catch something.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding a litde hurt and not sure how to go on. Jake sensed her doubt and smiled to himself.

  “Really. I’m suffering. “I’m avoiding the rest of the world too.”

  “I see. Sure you don’t want me to come…

  “Yes. But I should be back on my feet soon. “I’m getting fed up here. Give me a couple of days yet. You just keep an eye on the Rafters and Fll see you in there when I’m fit. Okay?” He hoped he didn’t sound as tired as he felt.

  “Okay,” replied Lyn, her confidence having been somewhat restored, and they talked for a while. Jake’s sagging spirits lifted: it was a relief to be able to contact his world again after dwelling in the haunting dream world of his nights.

  But his relief was short-lived, for another night of terror passed, with the dream as vivid as ever. Jake awoke sometime in the early hours to the sound of amplified breathing that had so disturbed him the night before. He had left his coat downstairs, and shortly after he woke he heard a crash down there after which the breathing stopped abruptly as it had before.

  “You must hang your coat up properly, you know Jake,” his mother told him reprovingly the next morning. Bleary eyed he stood at the foot of the stairs and tried to see what she meant—he had hung the coat up. Apparently though, it had fallen and knocked an ornament off a chest and smashed it. Jake nodded grumpily as his mother picked up the pieces. It was later that he realized he had hung the coat up in the kitchen and not the hall where the accident had taken place. Or had he? He shrugged. He could, he supposed, be mistaken.

  “Sorry about that, mum,” he said a little later, his bad mood having mellowed a bit. He sat down at the table.

  “Anyway I feel “better today.” It was a lie, but he had determined to get out of the house. He must see someone. Here he was only becoming nervous and irritable, allowing that infuriating dream to follow him around like a scavenging dog.

  Gradually the day passed, with the uncomfortable Jake constantly contemplating going out, only to keep putting it off. Snow lay thickly everywhere, and despite the glaring sun, there was a biting wind. The only relief from his boredom, which numbed him almost as much as the cold, came in the late afternoon when Lyn phoned him. This was the final straw in making up his mind.

  “I’ll see you in the Rafters tonight, love,” he promised her. His nose was still streaming wretchedly, but his head had cleared somewhat. So he bided his time in the house, pacing restlessly about like a caged lion, his mind running over and over the events of the night. He couldn’t stand this any longer. Tonight he would get drunk. He always slept like a log when he was drunk.

  By the time the pubs opened, Jake was keyed up to a terrible pitch, his nerves raw, as though exposed to the cold outside. No one he knew would be in the pub until eight o’clock, but he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He grabbed his coat, tempted though he was to put something else on, and opened the front door.

  “You’re daft to go out with that cold!” his mother scolded and his father shouted out something similar from the warmth of the living room; but Jake had made his mind up.

  “Don’t worry, folks. I’m well wrapped up. See you later. No need to wait up.”

  “Don’t stay out too long in this. It’s bitter. Have you got a scarf…and a handkerchief? Sure?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll be okay.”

  With that he banged to the door and set off in the crisp snow. His breath froze in white clouds before him. The pub was not far and the heavy coat was as warm as proverbial toast.’For the first time in days he felt snug.

  He was right about the pub—it was almost empty. Nevertheless he walked in, sneezed heartily and ordered a beer. He sat down and nursed his drink, followed it with others, though his thick cold made the frothy liquid tasteless. As time passed he became light-headed. It was nearly two hours before any of his crowd arrived, by which time he had drunk several pints.

 
; “What’s this, then?” said Fred, a rotund, scarf-festooned barrel of a lad, his matted hair bobbing up and down in the firelight as he came over. He pointed with his pint at the array of empty glasses on Jake’s table.

  “Eh? Oh, that. I’ve got a cold, sod it. Trying to flood it. Have one on me?” replied Jake, emptying the dregs of yet another drink and getting unsteadily to his feet.

  “Got one, thanks all the same. Hey, sit down, son. I’ll fetch you one.”

  Gradually the pub filled despite the appalling weather, and soon Jake was surrounded by friends, all glad to see him out and about again. Lyn was there as well, fussing around him, telling him he had no business being out on a night like this, although it was obvious that she was pleased to see him.

  Jake wasn’t bothered about anything by now. He had reached a warm, glowing condition, both inside and out, and felt pleasantly drunk. He was by no means insensible, but felt detached from his surroundings as though floating and observing indifferently several feet above it all. A number of his friends were soon cheerfully in the same euphoric condition.

  “How’sh that shircush big top, mate?” someone said in his ear, and he laughed as they gripped his coat sleeve. Faces leered around him like inane ghouls.

  “Ah. Lives in the bleedin’ thing now, don’t you Jake?” chuckled Fred. Jake realized that he still had the coat on despite the warmth. He grinned ludicrously. The room had begun to tilt and spin, a sure sign that he had reached the one-too-many stage. Everything felt very, very mellow, and he was completely relaxed.

  “Russhan coat,” he murmured to the fire.

  “What say?” Roy called, leaning over him.

  “Bloody Russhan! My coat. ’S Russhan.”

  “Yes, friends,” giggled Jane. “Jake is wearing a real Bolshevik coat.”

  “The genuine article,” chipped in Roy.

  “Yeah, man. Che Guevera and the revolution,” added the hip Paul.

  “That’s right,” smiled Lyn, sitting beside Jake, next to the fire. “Belonged to Mr. Broodi…Broodikov, or something.”

  Jake nodded, eyes on the dancing flames before him.

  “Broo…no; it was—”

  “He’s not with us,” Jane laughed, and one of two of the group exchanged knowing winks. Jake was indeed very drunk. He was staring very intently at the flames, but he appeared to see something else. It was the soldier in the snow, his coat being tom from him. And it was now that he saw what it was that had eluded him all this time, there, inside the coat of the soldier. It was the name tag.

  “Bredehoeft,” he muttered, eyes wide.

  “Ummm?” Lyn turned to him, taking the liberty of nuzzling up very close.

  “BREDEHOEFT!”

  Jake stood up very suddenly. A couple of glasses balanced precariously near the edge of the table fell, spilling their contents over the cracked tiles of the fireplace. Jake hadn’t noticed them. He still wasn’t able to add everything up. He just stood there swaying, and everyone had gone still, watching him with mouths agape.

  “Something tells me,” said Roy, taking control of the situation with practiced ease, “that Jake’s had enough. Come on, out to the loo.” He took Jake’s arm and guided him away from the startled Lyn.

  “The coat…this coat…” Jake was mumbling. Roy nodded to the others who began smiling again.

  “Steady on. You just—”

  “I’m alright, dammit!” Jake snapped, pulling free but staggering. Then he headed fast for the door and Roy frowned after him. Someone touched his elbow.

  “He’s okay?” It was Fred, squinting in the glare of the lighting.

  “Yeah. He’ll probably be sick. Best thing. No doubt he’ll be back in a minute or so. I’ll leave him to it. He gets a bit bad-tempered when he’s like this. It’ll wear off.”

  “He’s had a skinful,” Fred chuckled and they went back to the fire where everyone else was laughing the incident off. Lyn was the only one frowning, now waiting patiently for Jake’s return.

  But he hadn’t gone to the toilet. Instead he had rushed out into the frozen night, floundering for a moment in the even snow, leaving great scars behind him as he stumbled into the empty road.

  Now he could picture the whole dream in his mind, blown up and amplified it was by the alcohol. The cold night air enhanced his drunkenness and his world spun crazily, reality and illusion becoming wildly mixed in a colorful blur. Jake had no idea where he was headed. Slowly the dark shapes of trees and houses along the road vanished. He stopped, hands thrust deeply into the ample pockets. All he could see was snow, and the edges of his vision were clouded as if by mist or further snowfall. Everything was silent except for the pounding of his heart and the rasping of his own breathing.

  But that rasping, sniffling sound had become loud.

  Too loud.

  Almost as if it had developed an echo. From out of the air around him came the rasping, hoarse breathing. The whole atmosphere was filled with the choking sound, as though a giant breathed. It was exactly the same sound he had woken up to in his room, but this knew no confines.

  Jake’s eyes widened with terror. He whirled about him but saw only snow. Frantically he tried to run. The cold gripped him, sending a series of shudders down down his spine. Still the breathing went on, rising and blotting out all other thoughts.

  He moved on slowly, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. After he had gone some way he bit his lips as he almost stumbled over something. It must be a log or rock. He was about to move around it, when he drew back in horror. For it was no log.

  It was a man. It was the soldier. The soldier in the dream.

  But that was impossible, Jake’s brain screamed. His unbelieving eyes looked down at the agonized face of the man who breathed so hoarsely. Dim light gleamed on the dried blood of his head wound. Jake turned and tried to flee as the soldier reached out an imploring arm for his coat. He was dying of exposure. He must have his coat…

  Jake fled on, screaming now, his feet soaked, his trousers clinging coldly to his legs and shins. The horror of that face hovered before his streaming eyes.

  Suddenly he was conscious of the coat pulling at him. It seemed endowed of its own life, unless someone were trying to wrench it off his back. He tried to hug it. closer as he ran on, but its insane movements became more frantic. Jake could stand it no longer. He yanked at the brass buttons and they flew off into the snow, sparkling briefly before disappearing, and at last Jake dragged the coat off him as he ran.

  On and on he fled, flinging the coat from him as he went. It fell away behind him in a flurry and the breathing air stopped. All was still and silent—petrified—apart from Jake’s own feverish breathing. His throat felt as though liquid fire had been tipped down it.

  The world somersaulted. The snow became the sky. He fell face first into its cold embrace. The night air seemed to sigh as he lay still.

  They found him the next day out on the common, frozen in a stiff posture of death, his face a mask of fear.

  “What the heck he was doing out last night without a coat on, God alone knows,” commented the detective, pulling up the collar of his mac. The constable beside him nodded.

  “Can’t tell these crazy kids anything these days,” he replied, covering the body with a blanket.

  No one ever did find the coat.