by Brandon Dean
“Yes . . . yes . . . ,” Richter encourages.
“Go ahead, pal,” I hear Emmett say. “I know this ain’t you.”
I cock the hammer on my pistol.
“Do it!” Richter says.
I glance over at him, and I know what I have to do. Our original plan is shot; we had one chance, and it’s now or never. I have to take a stand, a final stand. I move my hand as fast as I can, aim the gun directly at Richter’s chest, and pull the trigger.
The gun clicks, but nothing happens.
It’s empty.
It was all a test.
Richter lets out a maniacal laugh. “What did I tell all of you?” he shouts, facing the Germans lined up on the wall. Richter raises his pistol again and fires a shot into Emmett’s head. He hits the ground in a lifeless thud.
“No!” I scream.
Richter aims his pistol at my torso and fires a bullet into me.
I fall on my back, my vision blurring. I look at my stomach and see blood—so much blood. My blood. It pours out of me in a never-ending stream.
“Remember when I said that walls are paper thin?” Richter asks me, his voice and face both shrouded in fury. “These walls, bathroom walls—all walls. You must think me stupid!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Riley’s holding back from crying. Richter approaches me and places his gun to my head. The burning pain in my stomach is unbearable, and I know that I’m dying. This one last shot will be almost a mercy.
“No! Don’t!” Riley screams suddenly.
Richter looks coldly at him and moves his gun again, firing a shot into his chest. Riley groans in pain as he falls to the ground next to me, a streak of his blood leaving a trail down the wall.
“Riley . . . I’m so . . . so sorry,” I mumble through agonizing pain.
Richter grabs me by my hair, drawing me closer to his face as he leans over me. “Repeat after me,” he says between gritted teeth. “Heil Hitler.”
“Don’t!” Riley shouts in pain. “Don’t you say it!”
Richter aims his gun at Riley again, keeping hold of my head. “Say it, or he dies. You don’t want to lose two friends at once, do you?” he asks with a grin.
“He . . . he . . . ,” I force myself to say.
Richter laughs at me again. “Come on, be a good boy and say it.”
“He . . . he . . . ,” I say.
“It’s okay. Our fearless leader doesn’t need the praise of a mutt like you, anyway.” Richter lets go of my head, sending it falling back to the ground. He unloads another shot into Riley’s chest, and the open wounds glisten in the light as he stares at me with a haunting look of shock and confusion, as if he can’t believe this is happening to him.
“Ri . . . Riley . . . ,” I pant.
“She will die,” Richter leans down again to whisper in my ear. “Seven days. I will be back to visit for our weekly supply run. That will be her last day on earth.”
“Pl-please . . . ,” I beg, knowing it will do no good.
“You’re pathetic,” Richter sneers. “Your pleading does nothing but prove your weakness.” Richter stands and shouts at all of the other prisoners watching. “Let this be an example to never go against German might! Let this show all of you what resistance does!”
I look to my right to see Emmett’s lifeless body, the shell of the man who was going to be our way out. I turn to face Riley, wearing that same look of horror on his face, as he coughs up and gags on his own blood. And I look down to my own wound, bleeding endlessly. So much blood.
“Get rid of the bodies!” Richter shouts before walking back inside the church.
I feel two sets of hands grab me, and then I’m carried away. One man has me by my feet; the other, by my arms. My head dangles as I see Riley next to me, being carried to the same fate. Our faces speak our goodbyes.
My vision is going out now, and I see where they’re taking me. That hole. They toss me in, and I land on the decomposed body of someone else who probably thought he had a chance. I’m looking up the dirt walls of the grave now, and in the distance, through all of the blur, I can see a vulture perched on the watchtower. He looks hungry. I see Riley’s body thrown into the grave, as well. His body lands on mine with a thud, and he’s looking at me now.
“Another one of my stupid ideas,” he says with a smile, coughing on his blood.
“Stop,” I beg him.
“In a hundred years, when they dig us up—they’re gonna think we’re Nazis,” he says, his voice weaker now.
“Shut up. We’re not dead yet,” I beg of him.
“Couple of kids from Mayfield should’ve known better. It’s the end, brother,” Riley says.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I watch as Riley slowly closes his own. A third body is thrown on top of us—Emmett’s.
“It’s pretty bright, Clint,” Riley says. “White, even . . . just like they always say it’s going to be.”
“Don’t . . . don’t you die,” I mutter, trying to sound commanding.
“I can see her,” Riley says. “Hey, Momma . . . hey, Momma! I’m home now . . . I’m home!” he says before his eyes shut completely.
I move my weak hand over to Riley and place it on his back, trying to shake him awake. “Wake up! Wake up . . . please,” I beg, but he isn’t breathing. They killed him, and I had to watch him die. I’m so sorry, Riley. I shouldn’t have ever gotten you involved.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? Back when I was in that cellar, I kept telling myself I wouldn’t die in a hole in the ground. Now, I think I just might.
My stomach doesn’t hurt as much now. I can barely feel it, actually. I do feel cold, though—really, really cold.
I can see it, too, now. What Riley was talking about. It’s fading in, and I can see people in the distance. Sitting at a huge table, waiting for me . . . Looks like there’s a turkey with all the fixings sitting in the middle of the table. I inch my way closer, just to see if I know them, and I do. Mom and Dad are there, Hazel, Violet, Emmett, Riley, Beverly, Art, and even Gabe. It’s just the way I said this would all end—just the way I pictured it, but somehow even better.
They turn their heads to face me, inviting me in with smiles. I’m gonna walk toward them and join the gathering at the table. I think I finally found my way. I think I finally made it to Promised Land.
I’m getting a little tired, though. I’m not dead yet, so I think I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, take a little nap, and see how I feel when I wake up. Think I’ll pray tonight before sleep. Should’ve taken the chance to pray when I was in the church . . .
It isn’t very easy to talk right now, so I’ll just think it in my head. That’s still praying, right?
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake . . .
I pray the Lord, my soul to take.
Amen.
Chapter 21
The light has faded away, and now I’m shrouded in absolute blackness. I can hear screaming . . . gunfire . . . It sounds so real, so haunting. Am I dead? Is this hell? It has to be; I don’t think heaven was built for people like me. I can hear footsteps approaching. There’s a confusion of injured yelps and shouts and cheers of victory in the background. But what stands out the most to me is the words I’m hearing.
They’re all unmistakably in English.
“He’s alive! Quick! Pull him out and ask this asshole what we need to know!” a voice says from above. I force my eyes open and see nothing but the thick morning mist. Then I feel strong hands reach down and grab me by the shirt, dragging my body up the side of the hole.
As my vision focuses, I see bodies littered everywhere. Some German, some prisoners, and some that seem civilian. What could possibly have happened? How long was I out?
My eyes close a
gain. I need to rest a little more. I don’t know who these people are, but if they kill me, at least it’ll be quicker than rotting in the ground. As my vision fades out and I lose consciousness again, I can see that they’re dragging me just outside the camp and into one of the German transport vehicles. I try my best to understand what’s happening, but it seems impossible.
Who are these people? What do they want from me? I wonder as I drift out again.
“He gonna make it?” a man asks in the same voice I heard before.
“I can’t answer that. He’s lost so much blood,” a woman replies.
“We just need to ask this dirtbag a few questions. After that, let him die, for all I care.”
“Rise and shine, shit bird,” that voice says again, this time to me.
Again, I force my eyes open to see a man standing before me. He looks to be in his late twenties, and he stands tall with a full, muscular frame, and rough patches of stubble along his chiseled jawline.
Judging by my surroundings, I seem to be in a clinic. I see a woman about my mother’s age leaving the small exam room, shutting the door behind her. Balled up in a pile near the door is the bloodied soldier’s uniform I’d been wearing, and I look down at my now-topless torso. A patch of gauze and medical tape conceal my wound, and the smell of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant lingers in the air.
I look back to the stone-cold stare I’m receiving from the stranger. “Where am I?” I ask.
“You speak English, then, huh? Sounds like you’re American. Makes you even worse scum,” he sneers, crouching to meet me at eye level. “Where are they?”
“Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, genuinely confused.
“Bullshit!” the stranger booms.
“It isn’t,” I groan.
“Your boss! He fled with his tail between his legs as soon as we invaded the camp. Where is he?”
“I want him dead as bad as you do, believe me,” I reply, taking in a deep breath to ease the sharp pain in my chest. “I’m not one of them . . . trust me.”
“So you were just wearing the uniform, then?” the stranger retorts, grinding and pressing the tip of his thumb into my wound.
I let out a short series of groans and yelps before the stranger releases the pressure from my wound. “I can’t answer your questions, so if you’re going to kill me . . . please, just do it,” I say, panting through the pain. “If I was truly one of them, explain the bullet hole. You think a prisoner did that to me? You think they would allow that to happen?” I ask, feeling overcome with exhaustion.
The stranger stands upright, obviously finding some sense in what I just said. “Go on, then. Keep talking,” he demands.
“I was with my people, my family. Long story short, we got captured,” I say.
“Where are they now?” the stranger asks.
“My girl—my fiancée—is in the other camp. Rest of them got away. Least, I hope they did,” I reply.
“What other camp?” the stranger asks, a dubious look on his face as he bends down again to look me in the eyes.
“An old grocery store in Lucasville. Hell, you might’ve passed it when you found my camp.”
The stranger chuckles condescendingly. “A grocery store? You expect me to believe that shit?”
“Think about it,” I counter. “Perfect place to hide, where no one would look. Check it for yourself,” I say, hoping he believes me.
“Who are you? What’s your name?” the stranger asks.
“Clint. What about you?” I respond.
“You don’t need to know me,” he replies. “Now tell me about your boss.”
“He isn’t any boss of mine, but his name is Richter,” I say. “He’s a psycho. Thinks he can control everyone with violence and make the country like another Germany.”
“Was it him? Richter? Did he kill the black man?” the stranger asks with an uneasy tone.
“Emmett? Yeah. Richter did it,” I answer, wondering why he’s so interested.
“You know him by name?” the stranger asks, surprised.
I nod. “He and the other guy in the German uniform inside the hole with me were the only people I could trust. Emmett and I arrived on the same day. We had a plan; things went sour. Why? Did you know him, too?” I ask.
“He was in our group leaving Indianapolis. We hit a fork in the road, and Emmett got captured. He was like a brother to me,” the stranger says. “This Richter guy—he has to pay.”
“That other guy in the hole, he was my best friend since we were little kids. I want Richter dead as bad as you do. You aren’t the only one who’s had your brother taken away by him.” I pause for a moment and take a long look at the stranger before saying, “You’re Murphy. Emmett mentioned you. Said you were the best friend a man like him could’ve had.”
“Yeah . . . that’s me,” Murphy affirms, finally realizing he can believe me. “So where do you think Richter is?” he asks.
“The only place I can even guess is the other camp I mentioned. Take me with you when you go. I’ll help you in any way you need. But I need your help in return.”
“With what?” Murphy asks.
“My girl. Her name is Hazel. I need to save her. I promised her she’d make it out.”
“I’ll consider it,” Murphy says noncommittally.
“There isn’t any time for considering it!” I snap, a surge of sharp pain shooting up my chest. “I know from what Emmett said that you aren’t a bad guy, just like I’m not. You just need answers, need a way out of this. We all do, but I’ve told you everything I can.”
Murphy stands up, obviously considering my request. “If you can help us find the place, I’ll try my best to get them out. We’ll leave in the morning. Get some rest. You’ll need it,” he says as he turns his back to me, walking out the door. He turns to face me as he stands in the doorway. “If you’re lying about any of this, I’m going to put you down. Keep that in mind before you try anything stupid.”
In that moment, I find peace in knowing that maybe it all wasn’t in vain. Maybe I’ll be able to pull through. Though I have to admit, I feel pretty crummy sending someone else to do what I should’ve been able to do. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter—as long as she’s safe. As long as we can make it out of this. Murphy seems like a good man. A hard-ass, but a good man. I think our common enemy will prove to be what brings us together in the end. Richter must die. I just hope they get to the camp before it’s too late.
I take Murphy’s advice, try to get some rest. I close my eyes and slip into the all too familiar darkness again. I’ve fallen asleep thousands of times before, but my new awareness of the darkness that slumber brings creates a sense of unease in me.
This darkness seems more intense than the deepest black and brings a level of loneliness and helplessness I’ve never experienced before. All I can visualize, if my eyes close for any more than a simple blink, are things I can never have. Things that fate itself has forbidden me from having—pleasures of the mind, soul, and flesh that have never been meant for me and will haunt me all the way to an inevitably early grave.
Though I see nothing in the darkness, I can hear children laughing, playing, singing. I can hear the words spoken by lovers. I can hear the sounds of nature all around. I can hear everything that has ever been worth hearing. Everything that sounds like life.
But why is it so dark?
I feel a sea of guilt drowning me. I don’t know why I’m overcome with this guilt all of a sudden, but I have a feeling I’m about to.
The sky is suddenly alight with the glow of a round sphere. It’s the moon—too perfect to be the real moon, though. So proportionate, so bright, without even the smallest visible blemish. There’s a sound off in the distance, a strange buzzing just loud enough to be heard. I look down at my feet to see them bare, planted firmly on a cobblestone p
ath that is overgrown by weeds. I begin to walk forward, and as I close in on what the light guides me to, I see a small gravestone ahead. I inch toward it, walking closer until I see what it says.
Clint Brodsky
May 2, 1926–May 3, 1943
The day the bombs fell.
I feel chills rush up from my toes to my temples as I realize that I should have died by now. It was my destiny to die.
That buzzing is louder now, loud enough for me to realize that it’s voices—voices of the ones I once knew and those I still know.
“I’m ashamed of you! Murderer!” I hear Dad hiss.
“You never came back! You let me die!” Hazel shrieks.
“We would have been safe if it weren’t for your stupidity!” Mom screams.
“This is all your fault—you had to blow our only chance!” Riley shouts.
“Please! Please stop, I’m sorry!” I plead. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!” I’m so desperate to make the voices stop, but they keep repeating themselves, over and over. With each word of blame, they get louder and increasingly condemning.
“I take you in as part of our family, and you doom us all,” Beverly groans.
“I should’ve known better than to trust some kid with his head up his ass!” Emmett howls.
“Please, God, make it stop! I’m sorry! It’s all my fault, and I’m sorry!” I scream, so loudly I swear I can taste the metallic flavor of my own blood as my vocal chords seem to rip apart in my effort to be heard.
“They heard me,” I whisper now as the voices cease to a haunting silence. I look around and see nothing but blackness apart from my own headstone, illuminated by the artificial moonlight. I look again at my burial plot. It’s different now; I no longer have a death date inscribed on that stone.
“How does it feel, little reaper?” I hear two deep voices say in unison from behind me. I turn to see the faces I hate the most staring back at me. Richter and Willard, side by side, grotesque grins stretching across their demented faces.
“Haven’t I suffered enough?” I demand of them.
