Garret didn’t look to see why. He was climbing frantically. The soil in the pit was dark and rich and wet, not at all what he would have expected to find under beach pebbles, but at least it was full of roots and rocks so that even in the near-dark, he could climb quickly.
His arm slowed him, though. The holes from the hellhound’s teeth were bleeding freely, and the muscles in his forearm which controlled his hand weren’t working very well. He climbed as best he could, though, hand over hand, whimpering, praying for help. The top of the hole was a long way up. Ashes still drifted down from the rim, some glowing briefly as they swirled. He heard a noise and glanced down.
The hellhounds were coming low and fast, a dozen pairs of burning eyes. They were running up the sides of the pit as easily as racehorses on flat ground. Garret’s arms were burning. He managed to pull himself up two more handholds before they were on him. Teeth clamped down all over his body. On his calves, his thighs, his shoulders, even his sides, but the teeth did not penetrate. They only bit hard enough to hold him. Until one of them bit into his forearm again.
Garret screamed and lurched away from the wall. They all went with him, falling into the dark hole. For the next few seconds, Garret’s world was a nightmare. He fell, tumbling helplessly, while a dozen creatures of darkness had at him, their eyes burning all around him.
Then he hit bottom. Or top. He hit something that felt like a stack of wood but it gave immediately, flying up around him. As soon as he hit it, gravity switched quicker than the wind. Down became up. He felt it in his inner ear, and everywhere else on his body.
Garret arced up, cinders and flaming wood tumbling through the air around him, then he hit, sprawled out on the pebbles. He coughed up some ash, choked on his own spit and rolled onto his stomach. The hellhounds were gone. He scrambled to a sitting position, cradling his bloody forearm. He was on the beach. The surf crashed lightly behind him. He could see it in the starlight.
Pun’kin gave a jerky snore, then rolled over, pulling the tarp off of Butterworth on the opposite end. The four Germans and Lieutenant Bartram were sleeping soundly as well.
Garret tried to get control of his breathing. He blinked at the trail of cinders and burning chunks of wood strewn between himself and the fire. His uniform was streaked with ash and ground with coals, but not a hair on his head was singed. He reached out a hand to a piece of wood, still burning, lying a couple feet from him. The heat on his fingers built quickly as he neared it. It would certainly burn him if he touched it. Whatever protection he’d had, it was gone now.
He sat back and shuddered a long breath. Booted footsteps were crunching through the pebbles towards them. Garret didn’t turn with alarm. He’d recognize the sound of Maxwell’s determined stride anywhere.
The Captain stepped into the light. He was watching Garret.
“Is something wrong, sailor?” Maxwell asked.
Garret shook his head without looking up.
Maxwell was plainly studying the strewn-out fire and Garret’s cindery appearance.
“Then what happened here?” Maxwell asked.
Garret shrugged, still without looking up. Instead of saying anything, or laying down and going to sleep like a normal person, Maxwell turned without another word and walked away again. Garret raised his eyes to the fire, now flattened and spread. He flinched when he thought he saw a pair of orange eyes hidden amongst the coals, watching him. But there was nothing there other than embers.
Chapter 30
June 22nd, 1914 Six days to Vidovdan
The following morning broke far too early. Garret didn’t remember falling asleep, but it must have happened at some point. The morning was overcast and grey, and the ashes of the firepit smoldered and smoked in the center of their makeshift camp. One of the Germans, Klaus, if Garret remembered right, was kicking pebbles on the last of the scattered embers.
Garret raised his head and pushed the rough tarp off of himself. He quickly grabbed it again and pulled it up around his chest. The air had cooled during the night. His friends were beginning to stir. Burl had snuggled up to Butterworth’s back like a baby. Fishy’s spot under the tarp was vacant. Garret looked around, but didn’t see him.
The German troopers were packing up camp with militaristic efficiency. The jocularity of the night before was gone. Garret rubbed the crusty funk out of his eyes and observed the cloudy sky above. Its grey light depleted the color from the beach and water around them until the new day seemed less like a morning than the burnt out butt of the night before. His arm throbbed dully, twanging the invisible wire to his heart every time it did. Discretely, he checked the bandage he’d wrapped around the bite marks. It was in place, but his uniform sleeve was still bloody, now dry and brown. He had no idea how he was going to explain it if somebody asked.
“Blimey,” Butterworth groused at Burl. “Get off of me you little—”
“Hey,” Pun’kin barked. “Leave ‘im alone now, ya hear?”
Captain Maxwell stood a few feet away, talking to the last sentry who’d stood during the night. It was Gerhard. Garret sat up, popping the cricks out of his back. He still felt weak and frayed from whatever-the-hell had happened during the night, but he’d escaped with his life again. That was a plus.
He hadn’t been awakened for sentry duty, and by the bleary but rested looks of his awakening friends, they hadn’t either. Maxwell had let them sleep. Otto stepped into Garret’s line of sight and dumped a pile of clothes on the tarp, mostly burying Velvet. “Get up,” he said with less of a German accent than Garret expected.
The ocean rolled on behind them, crashing. Garret shook Velvet’s shoulder to rouse him, then climbed out from under the tarp into the cool salt breeze. He started pawing through the pile of clothes. Garret had never really cared much about what he wore, but if he got first pick, then maybe he’d take it. He selected a breezy linen shirt with baggy sleeves. He eyed a pair of pants that were stiff and dark and distinguished-looking, but also too large. He tried them on twice to be sure before he gave up.
Pun’kin was also rooting through the pile. “Wonder where these came from?” he said.
Garret thought he caught a hint of an eye roll from Otto as he walked past, carrying an arm load of supplies. He threw them back into the cutter, which was now beached high and dry.
“You men will have to put your navy boots back on. It would be better if you were in full local dress, but shoes are harder to come by than clothes.”
It was Maxwell who’d said it. He was standing at the foot of their tarp, posture straight as an arrow, hands clasped behind his back. His face was darkening with beard growth, and it made him look swarthy and even more dangerous than he usually looked to Garret. Maxwell was wearing local clothing as well. A shirt not too dissimilar from Garret’s, heavy pants that looked like they had farm dirt ground into the knees, and a leather belt that looked strong enough to string up an elephant. Despite Maxwell’s unkempt appearance and bland dress, he still stood there as if the whole world was going to bend to his will.
If your idea is to blend in, then you’re an idiot, because nobody could mistake you for anything but a captain, Garret thought as he dug through the pile for pants.
As Burl began poking at the pile, Garret gave up on trying to satisfy his newly minted fashion sense and grabbed a pair of pants that fit before they were all gone.
Maxwell nudged Velvet with a boot. “Get up,” he said sternly. “The night is over. We have work to do.”
Well, guess that’s it then, Garret thought. Back to orders as usual. Maxwell didn’t have to allow them the respite of the previous evening. Garret knew that, and was secretly grateful to Maxwell for it. His gratitude made him irritable.
Garret pulled his shirt over his head. At least it would get rid of the blood stain on his uniform sleeve. Garret glanced around for Fishy. There he was, coming up the beach with the tall, quiet German. Judging by the fact that they were both in their underwear and bot
h soaked, they’d both been swimming.
Pun’kin who was trying to squeeze into a suit that was too small, said, “Am I puttin’ this on right?”
“Pun’kin, that’s a suit,” Velvet said as he crawled blearily to the pile. “And you’re wearing a farm shirt under it.”
“I’ve never had a suit before!” Pun’kin protested.
Velvet was holding a grey shirt at arm’s length, his Bostonian nose turned up at it. “And it’s too small,” he added to Pun’kin.
“But I’ve never had a suit before!” Pun’kin repeated.
Velvet gave up. On Pun’kin and the grey shirt.
Butterworth was pulling on some kind of bright red top, almost like a short vest.
Fishy was last to arrive, so he got last pick. There were only three items left. He grabbed the ugliest shirt in the pile, but instead of pulling it on, he used it to dry off. That left him with a shirt that was too big to fit any of them and a weird pair of pants that were draped loosely to the knees, then fit like a pair of tights from there down.
Despite his own attire, Fishy grinned at Butterworth’s outfit.
“What?” Butterworth demanded, giving him a challenging glare.
“Nothing. You look nice Barney.”
Butterworth narrowed his glare.
Fishy grinned. “Hey Barney, you know that vest-thingy is for a woman, right?”
Butterworth ripped it off and flung it to the ground. “Then why was it in the barmy pile?!” he demanded.
“Form up,” Maxwell barked as he strode towards them.
They all fell into an awkward line beside the Germans, who assembled like four articulated pieces of the same machine. Velvet glanced down at Fishy’s puffy-thigh leggings then whispered, “You look like a Genie. If I rub your head will you grant me a wish?”
“If your wish is for a toothless smile, go right ahead,” Fishy hissed back.
Maxwell stopped in front of their line and they snapped to attention. Bartram walked up beside him and took parade rest.
“You men have done well,” Maxwell said, speaking specifically to Garret and his friends. “You’ve made the Navy proud.”
If only Maxwell had phrased it differently, everything could have proceeded smoothly. As it was, his words rekindled a flash of rage in Garret that shocked even Garret. Proud? Twitch loved the Navy and you killed him for it.
“You men are assigned to Lieutenant Bartram for the duration of this mission. Listen to him and he’ll take you the rest of the way home.”
Maxwell walked to the German end of the line and began speaking with them in low tones. Lieutenant Bartram stepped up. Garret didn’t care.
That’s it? Garret thought, stealing glances at Maxwell out of the corner of his eyes. You’re just gonna walk away now? Maybe it was the best moment for it to happen, or maybe it was the worst moment, but either way, Garret’s emotions finally began to move past his control.
“Beyond this point, our maneuvers will be both sensitive and delicate,” Bartram said.
Garret barely heard him. He was glaring at Maxwell, openly now. You’re just gonna leave? You’re gonna go on with your life like nothing happened? And you think that’s okay?!
Garret had assumed there would be recompense, an accounting of some sort for all the horrible things for which Maxwell had ultimately been responsible. It was the only real reason that Garret had not yet lost control, because despite everything he’d experienced over the last few years, he still believed in a sense of fair play and balance in the world. Maybe that just meant Garret was even crazier than Maxwell. But regardless of what Garret wanted, recompense wasn’t going to happen. Maxwell had killed and killed and killed again, and now he was going to simply dust off his hands and walk out of Garret’s life forever.
You walk back over here and take responsibility! You tell Fishy how sorry you are for what you did to his brother!
Bartram was still talking, his glittering rat eyes watching them all. “Captain Maxwell and his men will infiltrate and destroy the central node of the organization. Cut off the head and the snake dies, as the saying goes.”
Of all the horrible people Garret had known in his day, Maxwell might have been the worst. And now, by all appearances, he was going to walk away and never have another thought about Theo or Curtis or Twitch or Charlie.
You say their names! You walk back over here and say their names. All of ‘em! You beg each and every one of them for forgiveness or so help me God, I’ll—
Lieutenant Bartram was still rattling. “Our job will be to scatter the smaller hub in Sarajevo. We expect little resistance, but we must be prepared. I know you aren’t trained for this, but most of the German storm troopers were killed assisting us during the battle with Audacious. We all have to make the best of the situation we have before us.”
Garret was shaking. Maybe he was angry at Maxwell, or maybe he was angry at a whole host of people, but either way, a tipping point had been reached. Lieutenant Bartram was still talking, but suddenly Garret yelled.
“You get your ass back over here!” Garret stepped out of the line and faced Maxwell. Everything stopped. If Garret hadn’t been so worked up, he might have thought even the surf had paused.
“Don’t you dare think you’re gonna walk away from me!” he yelled, pointing his finger at Captain Maxwell. Maxwell turned slowly to face him, hands folded behind his back, face carved from granite.
“Get your ass over here NOW!” Garret jabbed his pointing finger at the sand in front of him. All of his friends, even Butterworth, were wide-eyed.
Slowly as the incoming tide, Maxwell came. His measured stride made it clear that he was not coming because of Garret’s order. He was coming of his own volition, for his own purposes, and that was much scarier. He stepped right into Garret’s space, mere inches away from him, loomed over him, and said quietly, “Sailor, do you have something to say to me?”
Garret kept himself from shying back, but only just barely so. “Apologize!” Garret yelled in Maxwell’s face. “You killed Twitch! You shot him and threw him away like a piece of trash! You murdered him like he was a pig for slaughter!” Garret’s voice broke. “He loved you and you killed him like he was nothing.”
All of Garret’s friends were staring at him, floored by what he had just revealed. Velvet’s mouth was hanging open. Pun’kin and Burl looked like they’d been stabbed. Fishy was pale and staring at Maxwell.
Velvet said weakly, “Lieutenant Martin told us that Twitch died in an accident, working by himself. He told the whole crew.”
“Captain Maxwell killed him!” Garret yelled, his hands balled into quivering fists.
His accusation rang across the beach and was swallowed up by the uncaring surf.
“It’s all your fault!” Garret yelled while everyone watched in silence. “All of it! You brought us all out here. You! For your wife and daughter. You weren’t trying to save them, you just wanted revenge. Twitch, Charlie, Curtis, Theo—they all died because you wanted revenge!”
“Boy, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” Maxwell said.
“You think I don’t?” Garret yelled at him, pointing a finger in his face. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be afraid? You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything you love? What makes you so goddamn special? You make me sick!”
“I will see this done, sailor,” Maxwell said. “No matter how many foolish men I must remove from my way.” Then, without taking his eyes off of Garret, he said to the rest of them, “All of you get out of my sight.”
For a moment, pressurized and ripping at the seams, nobody moved. Then Barty started snapping orders. The Germans responded instantly, heading up the beach to disappear into the trees. Garret’s friends didn’t move until Lieutenant Bartram yelled, “That means now, gentlemen!”
They started moving away slowly, glancing back at Garret. All except Fishy. He stood tightly at attention on the sand. �
��What are you going to do sir?” Fishy dared to ask Captain Maxwell.
Maxwell turned from above the waist, as if he were some sort of soulless killing machine, hinged in all the wrong places and covered with skin to make him look human.
“Leave,” he said to Fishy.
Fishy went, but Lieutenant Bartram had to grab him by the arm and help him along.
Garret was quaking from head to toe and panting with rage, hate, and a hundred other things.
Maxwell leaned right into his face, hands still folded behind his back.
“I don’t know who or what you are,” he said quietly to Garret, “But for the rest of this mission to succeed, you must regain your balance.”
“What?” Garret yelled at him. “For what? What!”
Maxwell frowned. It was deeply displeased. Like a lion returning to its den to find someone there. After a moment, Maxwell seemed to reach a decision. He said, “So you think I killed your friend?”
“I saw it!”
“Then avenge him.”
Garret shook harder, ready to explode. His teeth were grinding like metal files. “Don’t you dare say that to me!”
“It’s what you want. You accuse me of seeking revenge because it’s what you want more than—”
Garret hit him in the middle, shoulder to Maxwell’s abdomen. The blow was apparently more than Maxwell had anticipated because Garret took him clean off his feet. Maxwell’s surprise only lasted a fraction of a second. They hit the pebbles and Garret was swinging blindly, screaming bloody murder. Maxwell batted some of the blows aside, caught one of them and flung Garret off of himself. Garret came to all fours, but he didn’t shift. The wolf rose up in him, demanding that he yield control, that he let himself be overcome by its strength and its instincts and the power of its bite.
But this time, the wolf was powerless before Garret. He slapped it down without a second thought. The wolf had no business here. I know what I am. He was human. Purely, horribly, brokenly human. And Maxwell would be too by the time Garret was done with him.
Ironclad Page 57
