Ice Storm (10 page)

"Pretty clever."

"Even so, I barely beat him."

We drove a little further. The silhouettes of mountains came into view. I could just make out their peaks through the blowing snow. But their bases remained invisible.

"So, you didn't really cheat," I said. "You tricked him."

"I think he felt a little foolish. But that wasn't what got him steamed. He was angry about the bet."

"What bet?"

"You have to understand. We were young and stupid. We didn't know—”

"Just tell me about the bet."

Graham sighed. "We both liked Liza Oliver. So, we decided the winner would get to take her to the annual Halloween party."

"Did she know about this?"

"Nope. Still doesn't as far as I know."

I studied his face. I saw his furrowed brow, his set jaw. Love—especially young love—was a funny thing. If returned, it could enrich a life beyond measure. But left unrequited, it could tear that same life apart.

"So, you took her to the party?"

"No," he replied. "Remember, I caught pneumonia. Baxter took her instead."

"You won the race but he got the girl. I still don't see why he's held a grudge all these years."

"Me neither."

I drove further. The mountains grew a little more distinct. The silhouettes crept downward and I started to see rocks near their bases.

"You might want to slow down." Graham lowered the GPS device and lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. "According to this, we're directly on top of the anomaly."

My fingers started to feel slippery on the steering wheel. The snow increased in volume.

"I wonder …" Graham extended his finger, pointing at a spot in the distance. "Do you see that?"

The blizzard obscured my view. But I still got a good look at the landscape. "No, that can't be right. That can't be the anomaly."

I drove a little further, hoping for a miracle. But it was the anomaly. There was no mistaking it.

"A glacier." I slammed the brakes. "We came all this way for a damn glacier."

Chapter 25

"We're here," Graham said. "We might as well take a look at it."

"I know. It's just …" I sighed. "I was sure this was it."

He nodded.

I jumped out of the Sno-Cat and walked swiftly across the ice. My back ached from the long, bumpy ride. My toes stung. My fingers hurt. My ears felt cold.

A ghostly apparition appeared in front of me. The glacier formation was shaped like a crushed box. Each side measured about one hundred feet long. It stood about fifty feet tall at its highest point.

I studied it for a moment. "What do you think?"

Graham shrugged.

"Lots of straight lines. Right angles too."

"Doesn't mean anything."

"Right angles don't exist in nature."

"Sure they do. They're not some secret invention of mankind."

"Maybe not." My heart beat a little faster. "But nature isn't biased toward the right angle. Mankind, on the other hand, uses it all the time."

I walked a little closer. The glacier looked like a squashed gingerbread house. All it needed was a graham cracker roof and some gumdrops in the front yard.

My spine prickled. I didn't know why. Maybe it was the sheer size of the glacier. Or maybe it was the strange way it seemed to absorb the snow without growing an inch in any direction.

I brushed away some powder. Underneath it, I found a thick layer of ice. I unsheathed my machete and poked it at the glacier. Bits of ice chipped away. Gradually, a small hole took shape.

I pushed harder. Ice fragmented and broke under my sharp blade. Large chunks dislodged and fell to the ground.

The blade pinged as it struck something hard. I peered into the small hole. "It's concrete."

"There's a building under there?"

"Not just any building." My pulse quickened. "
Werwolfsschanze
."

I jabbed my blade at the ice. More concrete came into view. It was cracked and broken. Individual sections varied in condition, ranging from dilapidated to ramshackle.

I circled around the ruins. On the opposite side, I came across a section of thick ice. It jutted away from the rest of the structure.

I chipped at it. Slowly, the top half of a metal door appeared. It was heavily warped and appeared to plunge straight into the ground.

Wind assailed the ruins. My ears started to ring. I carved up more ice, revealing the knob. Twisting it, I shoved the exposed door. It didn't open.

I jabbed my blade into the doorjamb. My muscles strained as I tried to pry the door open. It didn't budge.

I maneuvered my boots, sweeping collected snow away from the area. Then I slammed my shoulder into the door. The impact nearly wrenched my shoulder right out of its socket. But the door stood fast.

I lay down on my back and kicked out. My boots slammed into the metal. Pain shot through my legs, followed by an unpleasant tingling sensation. But the door remained shut.

Graham walked around the corner. "Won't open, huh?"

"Not yet."

"I've got an idea. Come with me."

I followed him around to the north side. It looked similar to the east side, albeit with a more sloping snow bank.

"See what I mean?" he said. "It's shorter over here. Plus, the snow is much more compact. You might be able to climb it."

Sheathing my machete, I trudged closer to the ruins. I bent my knees and coiled my body. Then I jumped.

My fingers caught hold of a thick ridge. Muscles straining, I pulled myself into the air. Then I climbed onto the roof. It was uneven and slanted to the north. A thick layer of snow covered it.

Suddenly, the snow caved under my feet. White powder shot into my face. I thrust out my hands, searching for something to grab.

But all they touched was air.

My feet slammed into concrete. My knees buckled and I rolled. I tried to stand up. But my left leg couldn't hold the weight. Slowly, I crumpled to the ground.

"Cy?" Graham's voice sounded distant. "Where the hell did you go?"

I winced. "There's a hole in the roof."

"So, you're inside? Well, hurry up and open the door already. It's cold out here."

Grumbling, I turned on my flashlight. A soft glow permeated the dark corners of the small room. The concrete floor was broken and twisted in numerous places, probably due to shifting ice. Tables, sawhorses, and machinery were lined up against the crumbling walls. Wood, metal slabs, and other raw materials lay scattered throughout the space.

I limped to the door and cleared away some large chunks of concrete. Then I grasped the knob and pulled with all of my strength. The door opened, scraping loudly over the concrete floor.

A wall of ice blocked the doorframe's lower half. So, Graham got down on his belly and crawled through the open space. "This is
Werwolfsschanze
?" he asked as he lowered himself to the floor.

I pointed my beam around the room. "Yeah, it's not exactly what I pictured either."

"I've seen bunkers like this one. The Nazis built them all over Europe. Lots of them are still standing." He looked around. "What's all this stuff?"

"Raw materials and tools from the looks of it."

"
Werwolfsschanze
was a workshop?"

"This part of it was." I aimed my beam at the south wall. The light glittered dangerously as it touched a metal surface. "But there's another door over there."

"That's not the only thing."

I followed his flashlight beam. In the southwest corner, I saw a shadowy silhouette. It was buried under a mountain of rusty tools.

I hiked to the corner and removed a broken shovel. Carefully, I examined some red splatter on it. "Could be paint."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

I tossed away a bunch of tools and shifted some concrete blocks. Graham pointed his beam at the pile. It illuminated the face of a middle-aged man. Judging from the thick layer of frost on his skin, he'd been in the room for a long time.

"How'd he die?" Graham asked.

"I don't know. We need a closer look." I pulled a rusty pickaxe out of the pile. Large pieces of concrete shifted. Dust shot into the air. A coughing fit seized me.

As the dust settled down again, I studied the man's uniform. His armband was black and adorned with a white symbol. "He's definitely a Nazi. But that's not an ordinary swastika."

Graham leaned in for a closer look. "It's a horizontal
Wolfsangel
, with a crossbar running down the middle.
Wolfsangel
was an ancient German rune. It resembles a wolf-hook, a device once used to hunt wolves."

"How do you know that?"

"You weren't the only one who did research." He leaned in for a closer look. "This particular version of
Wolfsangel
was created in the mid-1940s. It represented the
Werwolf Freischärler
. Translated loosely, that means
Werwolf
guerrillas."

"So, that cinches it. This building is
Werwolfsschanze
."

"It sure looks that way." Graham shifted his beam. "Damn, look at those wounds. It looks like something tried to eat him."

"I suppose the Nazis could've brought animals here. Maybe they got hungry when everyone died. Of course, that still doesn't explain how people died in the first place."

"Maybe. But whatever attacked this guy was powerful. Damn powerful."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at his head. It's barely attached to his body."

Chapter 26

The building quaked. The floor cracked and shifted beneath me. Dust shot into the air, forming a thick cloud cover over my face. Bits of concrete worked themselves free from the dilapidated ceiling. They hurtled toward the ground, pelting me like hail.

I grabbed Graham's arm and dragged him toward the west wall. Kneeling down, I covered my head with my hands.

The wall trembled. Small pieces of concrete struck my arms. More dust kicked into the air. Then a loud shrieking noise rang out.

A section of the east wall quivered. With a horrible groaning noise, it collapsed. Concrete and ice crashed to the ground. More dust lifted into the air. Snow joined it, whirling about in all directions. I could barely see.

The quaking stopped. The dust and snow began to settle. I waited a few seconds before removing my hands from my head.

"This place could come crashing down at any minute," Graham said. "We should get the hell out of here."

"You go. I'll be right behind you."

"You're sticking around?"

"Yes."

He exhaled through his nostrils. "Then so am I."

I swept my beam across the room. It passed over the newly formed pile of concrete and ice. Despite Graham's presence, I suddenly felt very alone. It was a far cry from Manhattan.

I'd traveled the world for the last three years. But I'd always considered Manhattan to be my home. I didn't love it, not exactly. Manhattan was like an old whore, used-up and tired but with enough tricks in her bag to keep you coming back for more.

She wasn't dead, not yet. Manhattan was still a giant, still unimaginably wealthy, still teeming with life. People from all over America—hell, from all over the world—traveled to visit her, to pay their respects, to experience just a tiny bit of her grandiosity. But her heyday had passed and it wasn't coming back.

I'd never been overly fond of the tourists or the foot traffic. In fact, my favorite Manhattan memories were of late nights. The traffic would lighten up, the tourists would return to their hotels, and the noise level would drop a few decibels.

Many evenings, I'd seek out an empty street. I'd stroll down the sidewalk, close my eyes, and listen to the crickets chirping in Central Park. For a split second, I'd experience an exceedingly rare moment of Manhattan life—blissful silence. Back then I'd craved solitude. Now, I had it.

But I was no longer sure I wanted it.

I crept to the south door. It was partially ajar. I slid through it and entered a second room. Once upon a time, it had served as some kind of scientific facility.

Now, it was a tomb.

Corpses lined the floor. They lay sprawled over fallen desks. They were heaped onto piles of papers and shattered test tubes.

I stopped next to the body of a young man. He wore a white lab coat. An armband on his left sleeve displayed the
Werwolf Freischärler
symbol. His body was well preserved and I could still make out some of his facial features. What was left of them anyway.

"More bite marks," I said.

"That's putting it mildly," Graham replied. "It looks like something chewed up his head and spit it out."

"No windows. No privacy. Below freezing temperatures. And then something ate him. Hell, I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard."

"I don't care much for rules. But here's one to live by." Graham bent down to adjust his mechanical leg. "Never feel sorry for Nazis."

"We're not talking about Adolf Hitler here. We're talking about a couple of scientists who got stuck working in the Nazi equivalent of Siberia."

"Scientists." He made a face. "More like torturers."

No photographs of the original Amber Room existed. However, I had a pretty good idea of what it looked like. So, I pointed my beam around the room. I didn't see it. But I did see a bunch of crates lining the east wall.

I poked inside a few of them. They contained microscopes, balances, clamps, test tube racks, beakers, and Petri dishes.

I moved down the line. In one crate, I saw a large puddle of dried liquid, paper slips, and pills. I could make out three of the words printed on the papers. "Ever heard of Pervitin?" I asked.

"I think its methamphetamine."

"How about Eukodal?"

"That's an old name for oxycodone."

"And D-IX?"

"Never heard of it."

Meth and oxy. I wasn't sure what to make of them. But one thing was becoming increasingly apparent. The Nazis had built more than a vault in Antarctica. They'd built some kind of laboratory too.

I lifted my flashlight. The beam passed over a series of metal doors that ran along the south wall.