Return From the Inferno (10 page)

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A slight white foam was running from his nose.

His lips were spread into a white, toothy grin.

"He went easy," Thorgils said, more to himself than Jones. "Obviously, this was the correct decision."

Jones looked down at his friend and couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness.

He's the last one left, he thought. Now it's only me.

Thorgils put his hand to Frost's throat and squeezed it.

"It's done," he said finally.

Then he turned to Jones. "My payment please?"

A pang of conscience hit Jones in the gut.

"You are a sick man in a world of sick men," he told Thorgils disgustedly as he handed over the envelope holding the photograph.

Thorgils took the envelope and held it to his chest even more securely than he'd held the ultra-precious myx.

"I've learned to live with that a long time ago," he told Jones in slurred broken English.

With that, he stole away into the darkness, leaving Jones alone with the rigid form of Major Frost.

The General would stay awake all that night and wait until the vulture wagon arrived at dawn to take Frost away.

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Chapter Fifteen

It was only when Thorgils reached the far side of the prison yard that he relaxed slightly and took a deep breath.

"Made it," he whispered to himself. "Again . . ."

Unlike the other prisoners, Thorgils was not forced to sleep on cold concrete or filthy stone. He slept every night on a bed of hay. Nor did he have to fight for the cupful of soup which the Death Skulls spooned out once a day to the rest of the inmates. Thorgils ate some sort of meat-beef usually-nearly every day. And he had never resorted to putting stones in his mouth to relieve thirst and hunger. He didn't have to. He was always supplied with a cow or lamb bone to gnaw on, the rotting marrow and dried blood providing him with a veritable feast compared to the gruel the others lived on.

These luxuries did not come without a price, however. They were in fact part of his job.

Thorgils was not a stone cutter or a member of the block moving gangs. He was not a vulture, or a measurer, or a weigher.

He was the prison dog keeper.

It was an enviable job. The Death Skulls maintained a line of half mad German shepherds with which they walked the prison yard during the work hours. The dogs were all physically deformed in some way. Some had had their bones intentionally broken and then improperly set. Others were regularly fed small quantities of cement or clay. When it congealed in the guts, it cursed the canine with a nasty, permanent stomachache. A few had endured hours of shotguns being fired

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next to their ears while they were restrained. The result being that the dog, while being half deaf, would explode in anger at the slightest sound.

All this was done to make the Death Skulls' guard dogs wildly unpredictable and extremely vicious and the hooded Nazis had done their job well. On an average of once a day, a prisoner met his end by the teeth of these brutalized beasts. The infraction might be large or petty; it didn't make any difference.

Once the Skull gave the order to Angreifen-attack- the targeted prisoner was doomed. Anywhere from five to fifteen minutes of horror ensued as the hapless victim was literally ripped to death and his corpse consumed by the attacking dog as a reward.

Thorgils was given the job as dog keeper by default. Simply put, none of the other prisoners wanted the duty; and several had chosen a bullet in the brain rather than pamper the Death Skulls' murderous pets. (Thorgils's predecessor had taken the job with the intent of killing all of the beasts via poison. He managed to put six of the twenty-four dogs out of their misery before he was caught and fed to the remaining shepherds literally one piece at a time.) Thorgils had never entertained such thoughts. Rather he embraced his job, even though it meant lying in the same, dogshit hay as the individually caged beasts, eating out of the same filthy bowls that held their daily ration of usually uncooked cow or sheep entrails, and chewing on the bones they left behind. He had simply fallen back on the instincts of his distant relatives, the original Vikings who, during long trips in their raiding dragon boats, lived and flourished under nearly identical conditions.

So to Thorgils's unstable mind, he was simply communing with his ancient elders.

The job also allowed him to maintain his strange, unbalanced addiction. Now finally back at the dog pens, he crawled inside the large, smelly wooden structure and made for the far corner. Several of the shepherds stirred as he came in. They were, despite their various ailments, not light sleepers, and his scent was very familiar to them.

He scurried over to his own separate cage and hunkered 84

down in the cleanest corner, scattering several small rats in the process.

Removing a carefully concealed floorboard, he reached down and retrieved a plastic bag of myx, similar in size and content to the one he'd given Jones.

The only difference was this myx was much lighter in color. It was more yellow than golden, and therefore not as concentrated.

He studied the few drops of almost syrupy substance, making sure it had not become contaminated. It hadn't-not that it made any difference. He would have ingested it anyway.

It was a secret learned from his father that had gotten him in so much trouble. Back in their brief heyday, the Norse First Family had paid their looseknit alliance of warring clans with myx. By controlling the production and dispensing of the highly addictive, hallucinogenic drug, Thorgils and his father held sway over their frequently squabbling soldiers. It was a classic example of Pavlovian supply and demand.

What Thorgils and his father knew was a little myx went a long way. Just a single tiny drop in a tankard of lager was enough to send a man reeling for almost twelve hours. More drops-say, an eighth of a tablespoon-meant a longer experience. However, if a person drank or was given a larger amount, anything more than an eighth of a cup, then something very different happened. That person would go into a myx-induced coma so deep that they could literally pass for dead.

This was why the crazy United American officers were buying high-concentrated myx from him. Not to enjoy the drug and all the undeniable pleasure it brought to both body and mind. No. Twelve of them so far had used it to feign death itself, to get out of the Dragon's Mouth.

To get free.

Thorgils had no such bravado tendencies. He was happy where he was. With his dogs. With his myx.

There was only one more thing he needed . . .

He opened the plastic bag, stuck his finger inside and came out with the tips of two fingers stained with the sticky stuff. He immediately put the fingers under his tongue and closed his eyes.

The familiar sweet sensation ran through him immediately.

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Suddenly the doghouse was a palace, its walls lined with gold, its floors sparkling like the finest jewels. The dark, humid night became cool and refreshing. The putrid water in the cracked cup next to him became a mug of the best ale. The rotting bone between his legs became the finest meal. The sleeping dogs were transformed into the truest thoroughbreds.

He was almost there.

With barely controlled emotion, he picked up the envelope. He'd been paid in various ways by the United Americans, but this is the first time he'd demanded what was inside the ripped and worn envelope. The foolish Americans had no other choice but to comply.

Now he carefully tore the envelope open. Then with a deep breath, he reached inside, drew out the photograph, and held it in the dazzling light sparkling before his eyes.

"Gods below," he whispered. His entire being vibrated with lust. "It's her . .

."

The submarine is rolling. Bells are ringing somewhere aft. He stands over the bed looking down at her. The gleaming knife is in his hand.

She is stunningly beautiful. As always.

His father is dead. Gone. Gone forever. Had he passed on to Valhalla? Did he die in battle? Did he die of a broken spirit? Was he murdered?

Would he ever know?

The last message from his father and king. Now it is in his ears and before his eyes. Do away with the Valkyrie. Kill her.

But why? Had she been disloyal? Did she break a sacred oath? Or did his father want her to join him in Valhalla? If so, did she not have to die in battle to ascend to that holy place?

He is mesmerized the lovely creature before him. Her hair is golden blonde.

Her body is a vision; her face a masterpiece. He begins to cry.

He knows she was never a Valkyrie. Not really. She is not the type. She is a queen in her own kingdom. She would have to be. Of this he is certain.

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How could he do it then? How could he defile one of the gods' most beautiful creations? Kill her? He couldn't kill her.

He loved her too much.

The solution may be then to turn this gleaming sword upon himself. To thrust it directly into his heart. To have her face the last to grace his pupils. To have her beauty be the last to race his heart.

To live or die? It is the choice of a lifetime.

But there is an answer. It is in the myx.

Reach down now and draw out too, too much. Put it on her lips. Feel your chest brush against her breasts. Touch the warmth of her breath. See her eyes close slowly. Behold her as she lies perfectly still.

Your lips to hers. Your hands on her bare shoulders.

Undo the top lace of her bodice.

Draw back the strings like petals of a flower.

See at last what you have been craving all this time.

There was a sudden damp explosion between Thorgils's legs.

Its intensity caused him to crack the back of his head against the dirty cement wall of his cage. The sound alone woke him from the orgasmic myx-induced dream.

He was getting good at this.

He opened his eyes and watched the world spin for the next half minute.

Slowly, the golden walls and jewels and pearls evaporated in the darkening spiral. The dazzling lights were gone. So were the grand stallions. The palace was now the doghouse again. Smelly. Filthy. Dehumanizing.

He stared down at the photograph of the woman named Dominique; his hands still too weak to wipe away the accumulating drool. Her face was painted with alluring makeup. She was dressed in a low-cut black negligee, showing a substantial amount of her beautiful breasts. Her lovely legs were adorned in black silk. She wore a crown in the midst of the wildly erotic blonde hairdo.

He had been right all along, he thought. She was a queen! This picture proved it. She was a queen to soldiers of America. Nearly all of them still carried her photo with them.

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Right over their hearts. They had told him so themselves.

And now like them, he had her picture. But the difference was, he had had her.

Their queen.

And that made him their king.

He drew a dirty rag from the hay floor and stuffed it between his legs to sop up the consequences of the episode of blind, pure, self-indulgent lust.

Then he closed his eyes and heard the dogs begin to stir.

She is still sleeping somewhere, he thought.

Chapter Sixteen

The road leading into Fuhrerstadt airport was filled with hundreds of military vehicles.

The sun was just coming up and the legions of tanks, APCs, missile carriers, fuel trucks, self-propelled howitzers, Hummers, scout cars and troop trucks were causing a traffic jam of such massive proportions, a mushroom cloud of engine exhaust was nearly blotting out the first rays of the dawn.

The snarl of war machinery was not limited to the ground. Overhead, more than a hundred aircraft were circling in holding patterns perilously close to one another. Helicopters-Apaches, Blackhawks, Cobras, Hueys-were competing for the air space closest to the ground. While a wide range of state-of-the-art combat jets-Tornadoes and Jaguars mostly-sullied the sky between three and seven thousand feet. All of the aircraft were armed to the teeth, all of them wearing the distinctive blue-gray spot camouflage of the Fourth Reich Luftwaffe.

This was not a typical day, even for the city which housed the capital of the German occupying forces in America. The troops had been called out for an occasiona ceremony to welcome the First Governor of Bundeswehr Four. It was protocol to pull out all the stops in welcoming one of the Fourth Reich's most powerful officers. It was also an excuse to lay on a giant helping of the lavish Prussian pageantry the Nazi soldiers loved so much.

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The two-mile road leading to the airport was lined with thousands of spectators, though their enthusiasm was absolutely nil. These were Americans living under the occupation and forced to attend the impending parade. Most had lived in other parts of the country before the Fourth Reich's sudden and crushing invasion. They'd been deported to Fuhrerstadt as slave labor for the sprawling city's weapons factories and its perpetually busy river docks.

And there was plenty of work to go around. Fuhrerstadt, AKA Football City, AKA St. Louis, was not the capital of Nazi America due to some fancy. Rather it was its geographic location (on the Mississippi River and at near center of the occupied territory) and its accessibility from land, water and air that made it a natural for the seat of the fascist government. Therefore just about anything that was flown over from the European Fatherland to occupied America passed through Fuhrerstadt at some point, with much of the heavy lifting being done by once proud Americans who were now little more than human chattel.

On the main boulevard, heavily armed patrols of Nicht Soldats walked the gutters, using their AK-47 rifles to nudge any American who they felt was not waving their pre-supplied Fourth Reich flags with proper enthusiasm. Other NS

stood watch on the rooftops of the buildings lining the route, their eyes painting the crowd from above, their orders to shoot anyone who might get out of line during the ceremony. At the same time, dozens of undercover police circulated inside the crowd itself, their ears perked for the slightest whisper of dissension.