They were also missing the rest of their platoon.
“This is it, Herr Leutnant,” he said. “I recommend we occupy the opera house and attempt a diversion.”
“Nein.” Reiser watched the building burn, his face pale and drawn. “You still have a pure sample of the Overman serum.”
“But the company—”
“Will fend for themselves,” Reiser grated. “We must carry on with our mission. We will proceed to Belle-Alliance-Platz and rejoin the regiment.”
“Zu befehl, Herr Leutnant,” Wolff growled.
They jogged south down Wilhelmstrasse.
Two SS officers stepped in the avenue, their faces grinning death masks under their peaked black caps. The first croaked, “Lebensraum,” his Luger clicking empty as he fired.
Braun and Weber rushed forward and knocked him on his back. Beck bayoneted the creature under the chin, the blade sliding up to destroy the brain.
The lights in the ghoul’s eyes went out.
The other SS officer blew a whistle.
A whistle answered in the distance, followed by others. No need to play it quiet anymore. Wolff raised his FG42 and sent a round between the SS officer’s eyes. The man toppled like a sack of meat.
“Herr Wolff!” Wilkins said and pointed.
Platoons of the Führer’s personal guard had peeled off at the sound of the whistle and were now marching down the street towards them.
Even more whistles answered in the distance, a chorus that spread in a chain reaction across the city.
“Time to go,” Wolff said. “Los, los, los!”
The squad again bolted down Wilhelmstrasse. Hardened by training and war, they made a good distance before the weight of their gear forced them to pause.
The draugr didn’t tire. As far as Wolff knew, they didn’t sleep. They only paused to eat. They kept coming in a shambling flood. The platoons chasing him had grown to hundreds of howling undead cramming the streets behind him.
And still more let up a howl as they advanced along side streets.
Reiser drew his Luger and glared at the army of the undead. “They are seeking to flank us. I need a volunteer to stay and divert them.”
Wolff didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it, Herr Leutnant.”
The lieutenant aimed and fired with a loud bang. Wilkins collapsed onto the cold pavement with an anguished cry, writhing and clutching at his leg.
The squad stepped back with a stunned gasp. A puff of smoke drifted in the air. They looked from their lieutenant to the Englishman in horror.
Wilkins would serve as a distraction for the dead, who would tear him to shreds and devour the pieces.
Wolff fell to his knees besides the wounded man and tore his fatigues to expose an entry and exit sound in his calf. Both were pouring blood. He only had seconds before the lieutenant ordered them back on the move.
He pulled out his med kit and set it on the pavement next to Wilkins while the man raved at him in English, trying to reach for his carbine. Reiser kicked it away. The sergeant cursed him.
“Expendable,” the lieutenant said. “Aren’t we all, Herr Wilkins? Gehen, Herr Wolff. That is an order.”
“Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.” To Wilkins, he hissed in English, “Bandage yourself up, get back on your feet, and move. You can still make it.”
Then he ran after his comrades, leaving the Englishman to fend for himself or die. The lieutenant had acted with a cruel pragmatism, crossing a line Wolff considered uncrossable. But orders were orders.
His first loyalty was to the Fallschirmjäger. Nothing else mattered compared to that, not even his family farm back home, and certainly not a British soldier.
White tenement buildings with red roofs framed the wide avenue, pristine and untouched by the Allied bombing. For a fleeting moment, Wolff could imagine none of this five-year nightmare had ever happened. That he wasn’t being chased by flesh-eating ghouls who looked like Germans. That his madman of a senior officer hadn’t shot a friendly soldier in cold blood to buy time for his escape.
Then a woman appeared in one of the windows overlooking the avenue, jarring him back to reality. Other civilians appeared in windows along the tenement block, old men and women and children, all banging on the glass, begging for his help.
Considering his options, he slowed his pace.
“Keep moving, Herr Wolff,” Reiser snapped, “or you will be next.”
Above him, glass shattered. He looked up in time to see a ghoul claw at the air as it plummeted to the earth. The thing struck the ground with a splat that sprayed blood across Wolff’s boots.
Then more draugr burst from their apartment windows to smash against the pavement like bombs filled with rotting meat.
“Keep going,” Wolff told his squad. “The Platz is just ahead.”
The Belle-Alliance-Platz loomed in front of a wall of smoke rising up from some uncontrolled fire on the other side of the Landwehr Canal. The circular plaza was surrounded by tall tenements.
A practical location for a regimental stand.
As they approached, Wolff saw no signs of life. The rising wall of smoke was closer than he’d thought. A building surrounding the Belle-Alliance-Platz appeared to be burning.
And there was no sign of the regiment.
“Halt!”
Three Fallschirmjäger stepped out of concealment and aimed their weapons.
“Second Platoon,” Wolff called to them. “Eagle Company!”
The paratroopers didn’t ask if they were all that was left of Hauptmann Werner’s command. They appeared to simply assume it.
Wolff had made it back to the 3FJR, but things seemed nearly as bad here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ESCAPE
Muller fired wildly and bolted down the hallway while Schulte dropped draugr with calm precision.
He came to a window and stopped. “We’re trapped!”
“Or,” Schulte said as he drilled another ghoul through the skull, “you could break the window and we could climb down.”
“God, you’re insufferable even in combat!”
Muller raised his K98, turned his head to avoid flying glass, and worked the bolt and trigger until he’d punched several big holes in the window. His rifle butt finished the job.
Freezing wind howled into the hallway like an angry spirit, flinging a cloud of Nazi papers across the advancing draugr. They marched steadily with their bayonets, the tramp of their booted feet vibrating through the floor.
“Sie, sie, sie, sie—”
“Any time would be good,” Schulte called out.
Muller looked down. “It’s pretty high.”
“You’re Fallschirmjäger, kid. Jump!”
He dropped his rifle onto the snow below. The wind had swept a tall dune of it against the side of the building. Cushion for his landing.
“I’m going down!”
Fortunately for him, the architects of the Reichstag had chosen a neo-Baroque architecture, with a highly ornate facade offering numerous projections as handholds. He lowered himself from the ledge and began to work his way down.
Schulte flew past him, hit the ground, and rolled. Muller sighed and did the same, landing hard in the snow.
The sniper held out his hand. “You all right?”