The
drone of the engines was loud. Muffled explosions threw Sergeant
Wilson against his seat straps. He grunted and adjusted his belt. It
was the night of June 5, 1944, and electricity was in the air. Across
the plane, paratroopers exchanged hushed words between nervous
glances at the sidewalls of the plane. Next to Wilson, a young
private muttered a prayer. Suddenly a green light clicked on.
"Thirty
seconds to drop!" bellowed the crewman.
The
soldiers snapped to their feet in a single file row. A D-ring hooked
their parachute pack to the static line running the length of the
aircraft. The act of standing up stripped away whatever remaining
bravado had followed these men onto the plane. Worried looks crossed
the aircraft as crisp steps devolved into shuffling. Outside, the
German anti-aircraft guns continued to pluck aircraft out of the
sky.
Unlike
the others, Wilson did not fear this, nor the enemies waiting for
him. At six hundred years old, he had been through his share of war.
Without thinking, he rubbed his chest. With a skull too thick for
weapons and a body that healed at an unnatural rate, a knife or its
ranged equivalent straight through the heart was all he had to fear
on this mission. There were others, but they were too obscure to be
of consequence.
He
grunted as the person behind him shifted around his pack and pushed
him back and forth. Satisfied that the Sergeant was safe to jump, he
called it out, and the matter was repeated down the entire length of
the plane.
"Ten
seconds!" the same crewman yelled again as he flung open the back
hatch.
BOOM!
The
plane was thrown to the side, as blood and glass sprayed across the
confined space. Wilson reflexively snapped his eyes shut against the
blinding orange light. He blinked the spots from his eyes in time to
watch the left engine finish separating itself from the aircraft.
Through the ringing of his ears, he heard someone scream at him to
jump. Who it was didn't matter. They were over the drop site, and
this plane was lost. He sprinted out the door and leaped into the
black abyss.
The
wind tore at his clothes and skin as he streaked down through the
night sky. Through the noise, Wilson felt the rustle of fabric. There
was motion in his peripheral and he was suddenly jerked upward by his
parachute. The sensation was like someone throwing you into a river,
then catching you, but never pulling you above water. The "current"
pulled at him, but he was able to take in what was happening.
Being
a creature of the night, his eyes had no problem adjusting to the
dark and his ears caught what others missed. Wilson watched as planes
fell from the sky with streaks of orange and red marking their path.
He listened to the horrifying screams as anti-aircraft rounds ripped
parachutes and humans alike to pieces. He mentally ticked off each
person in his unit as they were sent plunging to their deaths.
Ignoring
these, he focused on his own landing. While death wasn't much of a
worry, incapacitation was an equally unacceptable alternative. He
adjusted his course, as he came down. There was a grove of trees just
short of his desired landing point. He could land about anywhere, as
long as it wasn't there.
"Why
does the French coast have to be so damned fertile?" he muttered
bitterly as he fought the wind for control of his body.
That's
better," he added a second later.
Suddenly,
there was a high-pitched whistle. Anyone else would've missed it,
but he heard it. He heard the shell and then felt the tug on his
parachute. The fabric burst apart and he was falling once more.
BANG!
As
he fell forward, he felt more than saw the offending shell explode
above him. The explosion shook his body. His ears began to ring, and
shrapnel peppered his uniform. He ignored it in favor of his more
immediate problem.
The
grove of trees he had been trying to avoid was closing fast. Wilson
twisted his body and turned as much as he could. He stopped himself
just short of turning into a bat. The second he did that was the
second he could kiss his rifle, grenades, shovel, and other needed
items goodbye. Wilson watched with inescapable horror as a wall of
black forage enveloped. Sergeant Wilson tumbled foot by foot and yard
by hard, until there was nowhere else to fall. There was a stab of
pain in his legs, followed by his arms and head. Branches snapped
under his weight, and he hit the ground with a thud.
The
process of collecting himself was quick but not without pain. His
rifle and grenades had mostly survived the fall intact. Though, one
had a damaged pin. That one would be a bit trickier to operate. He
found one half of his shovel and glanced around with an annoyed
scowl. The other half was nowhere to be found.
"No
matter," he decided as he untangled himself from the mass of
bushes, "I should find the other-"
The
crack of a rifle stopped him mid-step. The sound had the distinct
ring of a German Mauser. The gears turned in his head and he
shrugged. The Sergeant was now alone. With this, he peeled off his
uniform to reveal clothes of black. Military decorum was no longer a
requirement. He would take the bridge in his own way. With fatigues
traded for clothes of black, he disappeared into the trees.
His
steps were augmented for speed, as he closed on the town. His target
was the city square. The morning would bring help, but only if he
could take the stone bridge that lay there. He paused a hundred yards
short main road into town. There stood a squad of Nazi soldiers.
Their rifles were low but ready. Their officer, a captain judging by
the uniform, took a drag from his cigarette as he gazed out into the
night
Wilson
froze as he surveyed the group. They were alert but had clearly not
seen him. Behind the group was an armored half-track with no gun and
an antenna sticking out. They were simply there to scoop up anyone
that happened to slip through the German dragnet. Wilson sunk into
the mist and crept toward them. There was no sound to be heard. A
breeze explained the rustling plants while his cautious steps avoided
the loose twigs. The soldiers never saw his approach. Nor did they
hear as he slipped onto the gravel road behind them. Taking care of
the radio operator was a trivial task, and Wilson was soon alone
behind the vehicle.
Wilson
poked his head around the side of the vehicle. He listened for signs
that they had heard him. The sound of idol, nervous chatter told him
the squad didn't suspect his presence. He crept forward on feet of
air. Suddenly, it happened. In the time it took to blink, a flash of
black had come and gone, taking the captain with it. Panic gnawed at
the edge of the squad's discipline as they took off after their
captain. Gravel crunched and twigs snapped as the squad fanned out
into the surrounding fields. Frantic words in German flew back and as
their flashlights whipped across the field.
"Did
you see where he went?"
"No."
"What
your step."
"Captain!
Can you hear us?"
"He
couldn't have gone far."
Away
from the danger of their wandering lights, Wilson sucked down the
blood of his victim. His eyes burned red as the blood took effect.
His silver hair returned to a much younger black as the wrinkles on
his face disappeared. Tonight, was to be a good night. Wilson wiped
the blood from his lips and continued on. News of the missing captain
traveled fast. By the time Wilson had reached the first building, the
news of his horrific death had also been relayed.
"Keep
your eyes peeled. Men or beasts, something is in the fields,"
warned one of the soldiers.
"How
many planes made it through?" asked his younger partner as his eyes
darted nervously
"Don't
know, but that is none of our concern," the first man replied as he
lit a cigarette, "Let the rest deal with them."
Suddenly
a scream cut through the night air. It was the distinct high note of
a man taken by surprise by his own death. The cry rang out through
the village. Every soldier turned to the bell tower in time to watch
a machine gun plummet to the ground below. Sharp eyes also caught
sight of the responsible party. His red eyes glowed like marker
lights in the clock tower.
"Up
there," shouted the third man.
Rifles
barked and the bell rung as bullets slammed into it. The gunfire
continued well after the movement had stopped. When they did finally
go silent and there was a second scream from further to the right. It
was that of a small child followed by a woman's frantic cries.
Glass shattered and a German private flew from the second-story
bedroom. The soldiers spread out. A cursory inspection showed the
private's throat had been ripped open in a similar fashion as the
Captain further west. The soldiers spread out, determined to find
this twisted soul. Little did they know of the horrors that would
await them.
As
the men searched, Wilson disappeared into the thick brush of the
riverbank. He couldn't defend or even really take the bridge
himself. Of course, that didn't mean that the Germans had to occupy
it either. He retreated under the bridge and listened to the pounding
footsteps overhead.
Then
the next couple hours drug on as Wilson went to work. Two rifle shots
rang out. A Nazi Lieutenant and the man next to him crumpled to the
ground with matching bullet holes. A sentry yelled out, and the
responding men found pieces of him scattered across the grape field.
His left arm was never found that night. Only one of the two guards
returned back. His slower partner was also claimed by the black of
night. This time, there was no cry or shout. His disappearance was
only noticed when the Sergeant in charge demanded to know where he
was. No one had a suitable answer. Four others along the edge of the
formation also disappeared, along with a sniper perched in one of the
trees along the riverbank.
"Form
up around the bridge. We will not be chasing shadows tonight," the
man barked.
"What
of the clock tower? One of the 42s is up there" demanded one of the
younger soldiers.
"It
is broken, yes? That is what Fritz said," the Sergeant demanded.
The
man nodded with a pale face.
"Very
well. Get three others and collect the ammunition. We have two
perfectly functioning machine guns here," he ordered.
"Yes
sir," the corporal acknowledged crisply.
Even
from his perch, Wilson could hear the faintest hint of a quiver. The
man was cracking, ever so slightly. He was refocused by a pain in his
chest. Wilson would have to be more careful. One of the bullets
earlier had come dangerously close to his heart. No matter, he would
heal soon enough.
On
top of the bridge, the German Sergeant in charge watched the clock
tower with piercing eyes. Every lamp was on, yet they had failed to
see anything more than the glowing red eyes in the beginning. It was
as though the figure simply absorbed the light around him. As the men
disappeared, others finished lighting the lamps in and around the
town. Closer to the bridge. Others, strategically placed lamps so as
to remove all shadows. With the entire area bathed in a warm glow, a
sense of relief washed over the man.
That
relief failed to follow the four soldiers into the tower. Muted
grumbling could be heard from the men as they swept their lights
across the passage. Around the narrow passage, all manners of gears
and weights were cast in the shifting light of their flashlights.
Upon reaching the ladder, the Corporal turned around.
"You
two, guard the entrance. Heinrich and I will collect the cases," he
ordered as he singled out two of the younger ones.
Discipline
silenced any protests as the duo waited by the ladder. Satisfied, the
Corporal and Heinrich disappeared up the ladder to the bell. The two
looked at each other and shrugged. Their lights played across the
room as they tried to illuminate the entire structure at once. The
fact that their lights were inadequate for this was not lost on the
duo.
"This
is not a wide room," observed one of the men as he wandered toward
the left wall.
Emboldened
by this observation, the second man made his way toward the other
wall with his submachine gun in hand. They made their way around the
large ropes and metal shapes with a new sense of purpose. Suddenly,
the man on the left felt the sensation of an unnatural breeze. He
spun toward the source only to find one of the heavy ropes coiling
around his body. The weight dropped down with the current time, and
the bone-crushing rope sent the screaming soldier high into the gears
above. The second one saw the motion and was already moving. His gun
came alive with a series of deafening barks. His target was the dark
shadow streaking across the wall.
The
Corporal in charge made the mistake of coming down at that point. An
unseen force caught him in the ribs and sent him sideways into a cast
iron cog. His helmet cracked and he crumpled to the ground. The
vampire's claws tore into Helmrich's chest as though it had been
made of wet paper. The man was also thrown off toward the wall. By
this point, the terrified survivor had found his mark. A hail of
dangerously accurate rounds chased Wilson back into the safety of the
gears above.
By
the time he found his bearings again, the young soldier had
disappeared out of the building. Slowly, Wilson creeped out of the
building. He would let the man have this fight. This time it was
imperative that he moves slow. The unit in the village knew of his
rough location. One missed a step and he would be reduced to a bloody
mess on the cobblestone road.
He
scurried along the back wall of the tower and disappeared into a
grape field behind the village. There he considered his options. The
night was vanishing fast, and he still had a dozen men to deal with.
He scowled as he considered his options. The Sergeant in charge was
an experienced man and Germans were growing wise to Wilson's
tricks. They stood together behind a mass of metal barricades and
sandbag walls, with men watching in every direction and lanterns
illuminated to compensate for the shadows cast by the city
lamps. Everyone had clearly heard the gunfire in the bell tower.
Yet the Sergeant refused to let anyone move. No one else could be
lured away.
This
left him with two options. He could leave the village to the first
armored division. However, this was one of the only river crossings
in the area. If it received substantial reinforcements, the entire
assault could stall. There was also the fact that occupied towns were
harder to hide in during the day. Or, he could get creative.
Finally
putting blind vengeance on the backburner, Wilson decided on a plan
and went to work. He hid his grenades and M1 in a clump of tall
grass. They wouldn't do him any good in this fight. He needed the
ability to reduce his size and that meant offloading any unnecessary
weight.
Back
on the bridge, the German Sergeant lit another cigarette as his eyes
scanned the buildings. He paid extra attention to the roofs and deep
shadows. Next, to him, the one survivor of the bell tower, a kid of
maybe twenty, clutched his MP-42 for dear life. Even as his eyes
darted, the Sergeant could see them glazing over. The color had long
since finished draining from his face as he stumbled back to the
bridge.
"He
didn't die... He didn't die... He didn't die..." the private
muttered over and over in Czech.
The
words were barely audible but cut through everyone like a knife
through hot butter.
"Everyone
dies," the Sergeant declared as he held out his last cigarette.
The
private accepted the stick of tobacco as he pried his left hand loose
of the gun's magazine. His shaking hands fought to light the match.
Impatient, the Sergeant snatched up the match and lit it himself.
He
swatted away a bat and ordered, "Take a couple of puffs and pull
yourself together. Tonight's not over."
"But
it is," echoed
a voice.
The
soldiers collectively paled at the voice. It was a deep,
authoritative voice. However, there was an edge of malice that made
everyone's skin crawl.
"This
bridge only promises death. Leave and you shall live to fight again,"
ordered
the voice.
Like
the rest of the men, the Sergeant turned a full circle, looking for
the source of the phantom voice. Yet he saw none.
"They
wish for us to break rank. Such a thing will not happen," the
Sergeant bellowed out.
The
declaration was soaked in bravado. However, a keen ear could hear the
faintest hint of a quiver in his voice. Suddenly a mass of black
appeared on the stone railing. There was a startled cry and the
private was thrown into the river. Pain shot through his body as he
slammed into the water. His face stung as water flooded both his nose
and his ears. As the Czech private fought to keep his head above
water, he could hear the terrified screams of the men above him. In
the flickering light of the city lamps, he watched as a black shadow
ripped through the Nazi formation. Gunshots rang and men yelled, but
it was for naught. As he drifted down the river, the half-conscious
man could hear the sound of tearing flesh and the hollow thud of
bodies being thrown against the cobblestone surface. As black
overtook his vision, the Czech private watched a cloaked figured
disappear into the night.
The
next morning, clouds hung low in the sky as Allied soldiers
cautiously moved into the village. A column of tanks led soldiers
through the dead village. Not a step was wasted, or stone left
unturned as squads broke off to clear the buildings. The Captain in
charge briefly considered telling them not to bother. There were
enough dead bodies in and around the village to account for most-- if
not all-- of the defenders. However, three years of heavy fighting
had drilled the value of caution into him. The mass of men and
equipment came to a stop at the base of the contested bridge. There,
even the most hardened stomachs rolled as they examined the mess
before them.
"Captain,
I just heard from B Company..."
The
radio operator trailed off as he came around the side of the tank.
His eyes wandered from the first bullet-riddled body to shredded
partner. From there they darted to a man slumped down against the
opposite wall. Blood had long since quit pouring from the gaping hole
in his throat. His fingers still clung to the unfired rifle in his
hands. Two feet further on lay another German in a pool of half-dried
blood. This time it was a bayonet lodged in his chest that had killed
him. The grotesque scene carried across the entire length of the
bridge.
"Yes,
Corporal?" the Captain croaked as he forced himself to look away.
The
operator solemnly removed his helmet as he answered, "They advised
caution in the village. A Czech private just washed up onshore. He
was half drowned and came around in hysterics--something about a
demon in the clock tower."
|