Blackbone (9 page)

The nightform gathered itself against the cold steel of the vestibule door, angered at the obstruction. Good feeding was outside. It would not be held back. There. A narrow slot. Room to slip through.

Beneath the vestibule door, a black smudge flowed through and emerged unseen by the man outside. It rolled past his boots, buffeted by the wind but holding its ground. Even in its weakened, unfed state, it was stronger than any mere natural force.

It reared up a few inches and tasted the air—the man’s thoughts, emotions. In a moment, it knew exactly what to do.

Strann stood at the platform railing, fighting the sway and the bumping tracks clacking beneath his feet. He stared out at the Missouri River, at the broad expanse of moonlight-spackled water, the twinkling lights of Mobridge dwindling in the distance. He watched for a long time, drawing on his second Camel and wondering why he was disappointed. What the hell had impressed his father so much? It was just a huge goddamned river, just flowing water. Nowhere near as thrilling as killing krauts.

He thought of the nine men he had killed in North Africa. Nine in two days. And the pride he had felt after the job was done and everybody was counting. No thrill in standing there waiting as they advanced across the desert, wondering if they were going to get him or he was going to get them. No fun in that at all. It was the killing itself, then the luxury of success that he liked.

Germans. With those coal-scuttle helmets and sand- colored uniforms, they mocked him in his dreams, inviting him to come back and fight again, because next time they would get him.

“Fucking krauts,” Strann grumbled, trying to banish them from his thoughts. He knew that killing nine men in two days was pure luck. That’s why he had become an MP. If he had to go through it again, those nine men might still be alive, and it might be
his
bones lying in the sand, bleaching under the sun. He could still see them— the Germans—slogging across the desert ahead of their tanks, coming closer, right up to his position, so close he could see the fear in their eyes. He looked up at the roof of the next car.

One of them was up there, big hands wrapped around a rifle stock, holding it steady, aiming it directly at him. The rifle swayed slightly with the motion of the train.

Strann rocked from side to side, his eyes fixed on it, knowing it was a figment of his imagination. He almost laughed, but the sound choked off in his throat.

Something’s wrong. This is no dream. There is someone up there—

He couldn’t see a face, but there
was
a coal-scuttle helmet and one ferocious eye sighting down the barrel at him.

Then the rifle flashed fire and something ripped past Strann’s cheek. Wood splintered behind him.

Strann turned in shock and stared at the jagged three inches of torn frame.

Impossible! A goddamned German soldier—on this train?

The next shot clanged off the steel platform and ricocheted away in the dark. Then all at once Strann was in motion, scrabbling for the .45 at his belt, digging it out and firing back.

The bullets flew in both directions as Strann scrambled backward, trying to find cover. But there was no cover—it was the perfect trap.

Kirst! Gotta be someone trying to rescue Kirst!

The rifle flashed again and again, so close, right in Strann’s face it seemed. But why didn’t the bullets hit? Or was he already dead, with the bullets going through him like hot blades through butter? He flinched with each shot and jumped around, watching the goddamned rifle follow and fire, follow and fire.

He twisted against the railing and leaned over the edge of the train and saw the water below. He thought of the door, of jumping back inside and hollering for help. But the German was firing round after round into the wood around the door, warning him away.

That’s water down there, you fucking idiot. Come on, you can swim. Go for it.

He leaped up on the railing—and then the shots were banging into the steel at the edge of the car behind him, ricocheting wildly. It was now or never. He felt the sensation of jumping and, as he jumped, he saw his mistake. He saw the west bank coming up just underneath, and a long sloping wall appear under the bridge. He saw it come up fast and heard the shots still echoing, and then he felt himself hit the wall with all the force of a cannonball.

Somewhere between consciousness and the murky certainty of approaching death, Corporal Michael Strann slid helplessly down that rough wall and into the cold embrace of the Missouri River. Blackness closed over him, enveloped him, and seemed to suck the desperation and terror from his body. A scream finally tore from his mouth and, as it echoed around him, he thought he heard distantly the whistle of the train and the rattling wheels.

By the time Kalmus got his ass out of the upper berth, grabbed his weapon, and nudged his way past the other passengers stepping into the aisle, the shots had stopped and that awful sustained scream had died. He bulled his way past and got out to the platform. Wind lifted him back against the vestibule door, and he stumbled over a dark mass at his feet. The lights were out. He couldn’t see a thing. He held his .45 ready and blinked to get accustomed to the gloom. The Missouri River was a half mile back and they were coming up on Moreau Jo, then suddenly they passed the first light and Kalmus glimpsed the thing at his feet.

It was Strann, sprawled shapelessly on the platform, his back against the wall, his jacket up around his chest as if he had slid down the wall. His eyes were stiff and glazed, and his gun was in his hand.

A steward appeared with a lantern. He stared bug-eyed at Kalmus kneeling by the body on the platform. Then Kalmus shouted at him to get a doctor. Kalmus snatched the lantern and shoved him away. The steward plunged through the vestibule door and tried to push through the crowd, but they flowed past him and, in the next second, there were ten people on the platform.

Kalmus took the .45 from Strann’s hand and touched the barrel. It was still warm. He checked the chamber—empty. He ran a hand over Strann’s face. The eyes moved. Strann was alive. Kalmus smelled something disagreeable and ran his hand under Strann’s ass to be sure. Christ, the guy had a full load in his pants.

Passengers were mumbling around him. The woman in the flannel nightgown stood above Kalmus, asking if the other soldier was dead. Kalmus shook his head and stood up. The steward came back with a doctor, an elderly gentleman with a white goatee and a thick southern accent that flowed like syrup as he shooed the passengers off the platform.

“What happened?” he asked Kalmus. Kalmus shrugged. The doctor knelt down by Strann, took his face in his hands, and studied the eyes. “Shock,” he declared, and rummaged in his bag for smelling salts.

Kalmus stood up and studied the platform. What had Strann been shooting at? Kalmus swept his gaze up to the top of the next car. He raised the lantern to see better and discovered that bullets had chewed up the roof. Kalmus frowned. He searched the platform on his side. If Strann had been shooting at someone up there, then shouldn’t there be evidence of returned fire? There was nothing. His side of the vestibule was intact, untouched. Kalmus turned and stared at Strann, who was starting to come around, and starting to cry uncontrollably.

During all the ruckus, before the steward arrived with the lantern, the nightform had slipped down from the roof of the next car, rolled back under the vestibule door, and drifted along the shadows, past milling feet, until it had found the closed curtains of Rolf Kirst’s berth. Frustrated because it lacked the power to complete its feeding, it licked at the air and tasted the confusion. It had come close. It had found the victim’s weakness and preyed on it but had been so weakened over the dark ages of imprisonment that the final moment, the climactic release of terror, had slipped out of its grasp. And something else—these people were stronger. In its own epoch, man had known that demons lurked in the void and had been properly frightened and therefore easier to feed upon. It made his task that much more difficult—dealing with a race of men who had no universal concept of evil, no instinctive awareness of what to be terrified about. No matter. The nightform would teach them.

Without a sound, it was swallowed up in the darkness behind the curtain.

PART TWO

Chapter 7

Chilton stood at the door to the officers’ rec room, waiting for Hopkins to finish his favorite joke. After the obligatory laughs, Chilton called to him softly.

Hopkins excused himself and went out, following Chilton up the road past headquarters.

“Got it through the grapevine, sir, just what we were looking for. Kinda skimpy, but I have a line on where to get the full story.”

“Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

“Yes, sir. Well, it appears that while stationed in France, Lieutenant Colonel Gilman disobeyed a direct order and subsequently lost his entire battalion.”

“Lost?”

“Wiped out, killed.”

“Everybody?”

Chilton nodded vigorously. “Gilman was relieved of command, busted to major, and sent home.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hopkins whistled. “Jesus H. Christ! Why didn’t they throw the book at him?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“How did he end up here?”

“Well, sir, you have to look at where
here
is.” Chilton grinned.

Hopkins glared at him. “Where here is happens to be where
we
are, Corporal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And personally, I don’t like the idea of associating with some prick who can’t obey an order.”

“You want me to keep on it, sir?”

“Yes! I want all of it! Every goddamned detail.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep going until I have every scrap of information available, and then and only then we can discuss that leave, sir.”

“Leave?”

Chilton reminded him of their deal. “San Francisco—one week’s leave.”

“Well, Corp, you just keep that in mind.”

“Yes, sir. We all need motivation.”

“I’ll motivate you with a boot in the ass if you breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Yes, sir. I am fully motivated,
sir!”

Hopkins turned up late for the officers’ meeting. He banged into Gilman’s office and grabbed a chair. “Sorry, sir,” he said to Gilman, fixing the clipboard on his lap and opening up his silver-plated pen.

“Help yourself to the coffee,” Gilman said.

“Thank you, sir. I’ve had sufficient.”

Gilman turned back to his agenda. As he went through it, assigning tasks, Hopkins doodled on his clipboard and waited for the inevitable pile of crap that would be coming his way. But Gilman handed even the shit jobs to Cosco and Blish.

Lieutenant Cosco was the adjutant—trim, well-built, and under twenty-five. His job was to shuffle paperwork, cut orders, requisition supplies, and expedite with clean efficiency. Nobody ever complained about Cosco’s work, and Gilman was mindful of that.

Lieutenant Blish was head of the MP detachment. Though stocky and gruff, he was not known for his initiative. It was rumored he was a secret drinker, but it never seemed to affect his ability to carry out orders.

Major Borden, the medical officer, was a retread from World War One. He was fifty years old and resented having been called up out of private practice to serve his country once again. And he doubly resented being sentenced to Blackbone. But Borden had integrity; he was dependable, knowledgeable, and a crackerjack doctor. He spoke German and was the only reliable interpreter in the camp. Borden was pasty white, with an iron-gray crew cut that showed off his Clark Gable ears. He smoked too heavily and hacked when he laughed. His glasses had lenses as thick as Coke bottles.

Gilman tore off the next page of his agenda and handed it to Cosco. “Type this up and see that everyone gets a copy, then let’s go to work on it. Basically, it’s everything we’ve discussed about making up shortages, fixing leaks, moving that fence, passing the prisoners’ mail through without holding it up six months for censorship—all that stuff. Hopkins, I want you to take the list around and personally make sure that every guard in this camp understands my policy. The prisoners are not our playthings. Anybody who can’t live with that gets transferred out.”

Hopkins nodded sullenly. “Yes, sir.”

With business concluded, Gilman broke out drinks. They switched from coffee to scotch. Cosco declined; Blish made a show of sipping quietly. Borden wanted to talk about the ‘14-’18 War, how much tougher and nastier it was. Hopkins interrupted.

“That’s old news. I’d like to hear what’s happening now. Major, what’s going on in France?”

Gilman was silent a moment then said, “If you’re reading the papers, you know as much as I do. They’re not hiding anything.”

“Oh, I don’t mean the political shit. I mean the inside poop. You were a line officer in Europe. How tough was it?”

“Some other time.”

“Oh, come on, Major. We’re stuck here on the back side of the moon. We don’t know what the hell’s going on. Fill us in.”