‘What?’
‘The camp I told you about… the scientists responsible for this nightmare…’
‘What about them?’
‘One was Swedish, the other from the Vaterland.’
‘And?’
‘And I was told that the Swede realised the full implications of the work he was being ordered to do, and he rebelled. That’s why they continue to hold him in Polonezköy.’
‘And the German?’
‘I have already explained. He was taken back to Berlin to complete his work to create a super-soldier with the strength of the monsters we’ve seen, but with more control and consideration.’
‘That doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Wilkins said, and he broke away momentarily to take care of the next nearest cadaver.
‘The Swede was trying to develop something that would stop the condition from progressing…’
‘An inhibitor? That would make sense. It’s the only option, I guess. A cure would be out of the question. How can you cure something that’s already dead?’
‘Quite.’
‘It is not much but I have told you everything I know, I am afraid. Do you believe me?’
Wilkins thought for a moment. ‘I believe I do. We want the same thing, you and I.’
There were seven corpses closing in now. Several were moving with increased speed. Wilkins holstered his pistol.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘Get out of here. Get home and do what you need to do.’
‘But I cannot leave you out here like this…’
‘I’ll be fine. Now go! Find your family!’
And with that Wilkins turned and ran along the road that stretched deeper into the forest. Von Boeselager roared away in the opposite direction.
The dead were everywhere. He could sense them. Feel them. Fortunately, as he’d found previously, by slowing down and mimicking their often clumsy and ponderous movements, he was able temporarily to fool them into thinking he was just another of their number. Mostly. Through bad luck he rounded the broad trunk of an ancient Norwegian Spruce at the exact same time a disfigured Nazi corpse came the other way. The dead soldier’s reactions were guttural, his speed surprising but no match for Wilkins. By the time the creature had opened its jaws, yellowed teeth ready to clamp down and rip the British man’s flesh from his bones, Wilkins had already struck. He plunged the blade of his clasp knife into the dead man’s temple, and his artificially prolonged life was ended instantly. He fell to the ground with the grace of a sack of potatoes. Wilkins wiped his blade on his trousers then moved on.
He checked his map and compass again in the eerie half-light of the forest, taking care not to draw any more unwanted attention than was necessary. The sun was all but hidden behind a layer of impenetrable grey cloud which was, in turn, hidden by the tree canopy overhead. If his calculations were accurate and his bearings were right, he’d reach the road to Liege soon enough, and from there he’d head west to the village. He was moving in the right direction, he was sure he was, but it didn’t take much to ignite his nagging self-doubts today. Here he was, completely alone in a war-torn, foreign land, swarming with an unnatural enemy, with his sweetheart hundreds and hundreds of miles away and what felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders. Things couldn’t get much worse.
Or could they?
He froze when he heard more sounds of movement nearby. More corpses? The noise was initially directionless, confused by the dense mass of trees. The camouflage they provided was welcome, but the way they diffracted the light and sound was not. He pressed himself up against another trunk and peered around, trying to see without being seen, ready to repel the next vicious attack.
A Nazi patrol.
He could tell from the way they were moving that the figures up ahead were human. Constant noises were audible now over the soldiers’ bluster – the engines of several jeeps, weapons being readied, orders being shouted. From the little he could make out, these men seemed to be retreating back from the front. He tried to believe it was the allies forcing them back, but he knew it almost certainly wouldn’t be.
Wilkins held his position – uncomfortably close – and watched as the increasingly frenzied movement continued. He heard voices yelling. ‘Schnell, schnell! Holen sie sich das haubitze in Position!’
It looked like they were the remnants of one of the Volksartilleriekorps. Field reports Wilkins had heard had intimated that they’d proved to be ill-equipped and had been left behind as the German front had advanced as part of Hitler’s surprise offensive across the Ardennes.
‘Schnell! Die monster kommen!’
Wilkins couldn’t risk going backwards or forwards, and instead he went up. He swiftly hauled himself up into the branches of the first tree he found with boughs low enough and strong enough to support his weight. He hugged the trunk of a tired old oak for all he was worth. A distinctly British tree in unfamiliar surroundings. Memories of home gave him the slightest crumb of comfort. And in the same way this lone oak stood proud amongst the spruce, he quickly realised how his survival out here was due in no small part to the fact he was on his own. The old adage of there being safety in numbers usually held true, but not today.
From his precarious perch, Wilkins watched another bloody battle quickly unfold. The Nazis, he deduced, had indeed been retreating, for their actions appeared frantic and uncoordinated; not cold, ruthless and clinical as he’d come to expect from the enemy. The ragtag convoy moved through the forest, but then ground to a halt when a stormtrooper lookout spotted that they were running towards as many ghouls as they were running from. Caught out by the openness of this part of the wood, they had been all but surrounded and their noise was doing nothing to help hide their position.
The Germans began to dig in, ready for the inevitable.
Wilkins was distracted by the movement of more of the dead near the base of the tree in which he was hiding. They were moving in a pack, almost in formation, and for a moment his heart leapt. They were allied troops. Americans, by the looks of things. He felt a momentary surge of relief when he recognised their uniforms, then utter despair.
Dead.
All of them.
But still fighting.
There must have been almost thirty of them all told, maybe half as many again. They came towards the German position with a chilling lack of fear, advancing with almost arrogant slowness.
‘Feuer!’
A howitzer was fired into the advancing undead at close range. Wilkins tasted bile at the back of his throat as bodies were blown to pieces, a smoky haze of gore and dismembered limbs sent flying in all directions. Trees and fauna exploded outwards. A disembodied head landed in the leaf-litter and burst like an over-ripe melon. Wilkins gagged and forced himself to look up, not down.
He peered around the side of his tree – still standing, thankfully – and witnessed several members of the Volksartilleriekorps desperately trying to regroup and reload, but they were far too slow and far too late. They concentrated their fire on the dead coming at them from ahead, but there were twice as many more approaching from behind. The undead army surged through and left no survivors in their wake.
Several of the few remaining Germans began to run, scarpering in all directions. One of them, a young lad with an unruly mop of white-blond hair, tripped and fell over the roots of the tree in which Wilkins was hiding. He rolled onto his back and looked up. Sworn enemies caught sight of each other, but their uniformed distinctions were immediately forgotten. Wilkins felt genuinely sorry for the kraut. His face was streaked with tears. Wide-eyed and helpless, he didn’t look old enough to be fighting. ‘Hilf mir. Bitte . . .’