Return From the Inferno (17 page)

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the flying light on the tracks near Gary had altered his life forever. The intense beam had opened his eyes, both literally and figuratively. It had made him see not what he really was - he knew he was a murdering, sexually bent criminal who just happened to know how to fly a jet fighter-but what he could be. It told him he could change. It told him that he could make a difference.

It told him to forget the old evil ways of New Chicago and divert instead to Fuhrerstadt, where perhaps he could change things.

And just as the beam of light had opened his eyes, the long journey through the countryside to Fuhrerstadt had opened his soul.

Lying in a field at night, he would stare up at the stars and weep openly at their beauty. In the day, he would frequently stop to admire a babbling brook or a bird's nest or a clutch of wild flowers and revel in their majestic simplicity. Far from being a wanton murderer now, he treated every person he met with the same reverential politeness. He had worked for his meals along the way, chopping wood, gathering food, even helping to paint a house for an elderly couple. With each act of his kindness, he was rewarded tenfold inside.

But his new life, and he truly did feel born again, had not blinded him to all the evil in the world. Rather it quite simply explained it to him: Men were the cause of all the misery and suffering on the planet. There is nothing inherently evil in any animal or plant or fish. It was the humans who caused it all. And some definitely more than others. Of this he was sure; simply because he used to be one of them.

With his rebirth came a new grasp of common sense. It was a smart man who realized the human world was inherently evil. It was an ignorant man who allowed himself to be victimized by it. For if one did, then it would prevent him from spreading the news of the enlightenment and joy he had received.

He had been inside the city only a few hours when he saw the parade route begin to form. (He took the fact that he was able to walk past the many checkpoints uninhibited as yet another instance of his newfound spiritual luck.) And now, he had been suddenly plucked from the crowd of thousands to be given this "place of honor," along the parade route.

It was yet another sign.

From his unobstructed vantage point he could see the first rows of the leadoff marching band coming his way through the canyon of 139

skyscrapers which lined Fuhrerstadfs main boulevard. The sounds of their blaring brass horns soon reached his ears. Within a minute they were upon him, trumpets, trombones and drums, all played by impeccably uniformed, goose-stepping soldiers.

Next came several units of NS scout cars, personnel carriers and main battle tanks, their crews looking all business in their highly starched combat fatigues. After the vehicles came at least a thousand NS infantrymen, marching with their bayonet equipped rifles held out in front of them in a display of choreographed hostility.

Finally came the vehicle bearing the guests of honor. Itchy thought it was an odd mix sitting in the back of this open-roofed car: on one side was a young girl in a white dress who seemed more intent on her drawing pad and crayons than the thousands of people loudly cheering her; on the other was a priest, splendidly dressed, yet looking oddly out-of-place.

Between them was a thin man in a white uniform covered with medals, ribbons, gold stars and swastikas. Quite unlike the other two, this man was beaming. He was waving, pointing, laughing at the crowds, almost as if he was convinced they were actually enjoying seeing him.

"Perfect," Itchy whispered to himself, reaching for his gun.

Fitz was never quite sure how it happened.

One moment he was riding along in the touring car, his rear end killing him from the hard seat, trying his best to avert the glazed-over eyes of the slave workers. In the next, all hell had broken loose.

He saw the flash from the gun barrel first. Once. Twice. Three times. The man behind the pistol was smiling oddly as he pumped three bullets into the chest of the First Governor. The next thing Fitz knew, the Fourth Reich officer was grabbing his throat and finding his hands covered in blood.

"What. . . what has happened?" he cried out.

The man with the gun was immediately shot. More than six members of the NS

security forces emptied their guns into him, firing at the twitching body long after it was lifeless. The stunned factory workers nearby were frozen in place, not quite believing what they were seeing. Soon the street was mobbed with security people. So much so, the driver of the touring car had a hard time moving

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through the crowd and away from the shooting scene.

"Turn back!" someone was yelling "Go to the hospital!"

But it was too late. Even the two doctors who had jumped from their ever near surgical van onto the back of the car moments before it sped away knew that the First Governor was mortally wounded.

The young girl was in a state of shock, and Fitz was not much better. He found himself cradling the Nazi officer in his lap, his vestments quickly soaking in the man's blood.

Fitz couldn't help but look into the dying man's eyes. His lips were trembling as they went white.

"Please, Father . . ." the First Governor gasped, looking up at Fitz with teary, pleading eyes. "Please save me . . ."

Fitz turned to stone. His worst fear had come true, but not in any way he could have imagined it.

Now he could only stare back down at the dying man and say: "I can't. . ."

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Thorgils picked a small piece of dirty straw from his beard and tossed it aside.

"Can you see the flames?" he asked the crowd of fifty inmates standing in front and slightly below him. "Did you hear the gunshots?"

"I can see the fire!" one prisoner yelled back. "Right over the top of the wall."

"I can too!" another cried. "Look-fire. And smoke. On the other side of the wall!"

Soon more than half the crowd was jabbering and pointing to the faint glow at the top of the prison east wall, many claiming that they could actually see flames and billowing smoke.

Thorgils smiled and took in a deep breath. For the first time in a long time the air did not smell of dirty hay and dog urine.

"I have told you, my friends," he continued, steadying himself on his creaky makeshift speaking platform. "I have told you that we will be plucked from here, haven't I? We will all ascend. We shall all rise up! If you see the fire, then you see light."

Hidden in the shadows about fifty feet away from the gathering, General Dave Jones was shaking his head in disbelief. "What a bunch of crap," he whispered.

Undeniably, he could see a slight glint of sparkling light just at the far edge of the east wall. But it certainly wasn't anything to get so excited about. And true, there had been the sounds of gunfire earlier in the day. But Jones was certain that it had to do with

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another big parade the Nazis had staged around noontime. An event he was sure had happened because the food truck was later than usual in arriving, and the stiff wagons were held up at the main gate by the Skulls presumably until the traffic out on the main boulevard was cleared.

Still Jones was very worried. The fact that the myx-addicted Thorgils could whip up the crowd of prisoners on such small pretenses and convince them that some kind of salvation was in the offing, was highly troubling. The dog man had been preaching nonstop now for several days, beginning with the short meetings at the noon meal, to long disconnected dissertations once the Skulls locked them all in at night.

And just as Thorgils's ramblings grew, so did his crowd. Jones was astonished how many people chose to sit and listen to his nonsense about "rising up"

instead of getting as much sleep in the little time allotted to them.

All this meant trouble and as a military man, Jones knew he had to do something about it.

He'd been putting off any thoughts of escaping from the prison himself, not with nearly two thousand five hundred United American officers being held just beyond the next wall. Twelve, plus Frost, had escaped via Thorgils's myx potion, and he'd hoped until recently that more would be able to follow. For him to leave now seemed akin to a captain jumping from his sinking ship.

But on the other hand, when the Skulls finally decided to put an end to Thorgils's prophet fantasy-and it was just a matter of time-then the elaborate and dangerous escape system set up on the outside would most likely be compromised. He was sure that the Skulls could crack Thorgils like an egg. And when they did, he was just as sure that he would tell them everything. Then, the Skulls would come looking for him, and quite possibly begin reprisals against the rest of the prison's UA population.

So earlier that day, Jones had decided it was time to get out.

But he wasn't going alone.

It was close to 4 AM before Thorgils brought his revival meeting to a close.

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As the crowd dispersed, he took offerings of extra bread and water from his congregation and made his way back to his cage inside the kennel.

Jones was waiting for him there.

"Were going on a trip," Jones told him. "You and me. We're eating the last of your stuff and getting out. Do you understand?"

Thorgils, his fragile psyche already battered and reeling, was speechless.

"But why?" was all he could offer.

Jones didn't answer him right away. Instead he pulled out the slim razor sharp sliver of metal he'd been fashioning into a knife for the past few weeks and pointed it at Thorgils's throat.

"Get your stuff," he ordered the man, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the dogs. "One way or another, you re going out of here in a bag."

Mass graveyard No. 1, 24 hours later

It was raining.

The intense heat of the day had cooked the early evening clouds to a boil and a torrential thunder and lightning storm was the result.

The hard rain spattered across the Mass Grave No. 1, turning freshly dug individual graves into puddles, large mass graves into small ponds. If anything, the rain increased the smell of death which always permeated the place. Instead of washing it away, it simply reinforced it.

It was the dead of night, but there was a spark of activity in the burial ground. Two NS armored personnel carriers, both of them bristling with heavily armed, rain slickered troops, had their powerful searchlights concentrated on a single spot near the middle of the graveyard. Here it provided light for a smaller concentration of men-six soldiers, one officer and a civilian-who were down at the bottom of one of the larger mass graves.

All but one of them were poking at the bodies.

A major named Schiltz was in charge of this strange mission.

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Even though he'd been a deep-dish Nazi for several years, at least one human element had yet to seep out of him: fear. Being in the graveyard this late at night, in the middle of a thunderstorm, was too close to a horror movie for him. Thus he was scared shitless.

"Check that one!" he ordered one of his Troops nervously. "And you, that one .

. ."

The soldiers hopped instantly, slipping around the putrid mud, reaching up inside the death shrouds and checking for any indications of a pulse, however slow and faint they may be.

"Nothing, sir!" the first soldier called back to Schiltz, obviously relieved to withdraw his hand from the cold neck of an authentic corpse.

"Nothing here, either," the second soldier reported, equally relieved.

Schiltz was doing a slow burn. He'd been out in the graveyard for two hours, presiding over the morbid inspection of the dead. Now he was wondering if he was, in fact, on a ghoulish fool's errand.

He turned to the civilian. The man was soaked and ragged and dirty.

"Are you sure?" he asked him, his Teutonic tone leaving no small impression that he was rapidly losing his patience.

The man stood almost motionless, head drooped, rainwater dripping from every part of him.

"I'm sure," he replied slowly.

The field was so green, it was sparkling.

There were flowers everywhere, and large graceful birds were flying overhead.

General Dave Jones was lying back in this field, soaking in a sun so bright, it almost hurt his eyes.

He'd been lying here for an entire day, and yet the sun had not yet moved.

Every fiber of his being was singing with pleasure. Never in his life had he felt so good.

There were women all around him, of course. Beautiful women and girls. All in low-cut, flowing gowns, all plainly available to him whenever he wanted. He would partake-soon. But first, he

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was concentrating on a single figure walking toward him from about a mile away.

He didn't have to squint to make out the man's features, even at that distance. The man was small and wiry, just like him. He was his exact age. His craggy face was identical to his, as was his shock of white hair. He was wearing the blue dress uniform of a general in the United States Air Force, just as Jones was.

The man was, in fact, his twin brother, Seth.

Soon he was standing before him. They embraced warmly.

"I knew we would see each other again," Seth told him.

"It's been a long, long time," Jones replied. The warm summer breeze washed across his face, "We have much to talk about."

But then suddenly, the sunlight dimmed.

Jones looked up to see a massive dark cloud had drifted in front of the sun.

Instantly the sparkling green fields began to turn brown and wither. The women all disappeared. The warm breeze turned into a cold wind. And it was raining.

Suddenly Seth's face looked old-very old-and the rain seemed to be collecting under his eyes like tears.

Without speaking, Seth reached across to Jones's face and began peeling away his shroud.

The next instant, Jones was looking up into the face of an NS soldier and the beams of two powerful searchlights. It was dark and rainy and miserable.

"It is him!" the soldier was yelping in thick German. "He is the one who is still alive!"