The men were staring at him. Phillips stopped talking. Wilson cleared his throat again. ‘No, Sarge, that’s not what I’m talking about. There’s things happening on the battlefield that are evil and unnatural.’
‘Go on…’
‘I have it on good authority that the Nazis have developed some kind of treatment they’re giving their men what’s turned them into monsters.’
‘Monsters?’
‘Aye, sir, monsters. Like I said, I was there listening when the reports was coming in. I know you’ll not believe me, but I’ll tell you just the same. They’re saying these men are already dead, but that this treatment, this serum they’ve been given, is keeping them mobile and keeping them fighting.’
‘That’s preposterous.’
‘It’s true!’ Wilson said, and he stood up and moved towards Phillips, decorum and rank temporarily forgotten. ‘It’s true,’ he said again, voice lower, back in control.
Whether or not Wilson and the others had heard the things they were purporting to have heard, it was clear to Phillips that the news had affected each of them deeply. ‘Go on,’ he pushed.
‘These creatures… these dead Germans… they’re fighting and fighting and fighting and there’s nothing that’ll bring them down save for a bullet to the head. Look, sir, I know how mad this must sound, but you should have heard them… you should have heard the panic in our boy’s voices.’
‘Wilson here reckons that whatever it is that fires these dead blokes up, gets passed on to anyone they kill.’ Stewart said. ‘Bites, cuts, scratches… Infected blood was what I heard.’
‘Wait a minute… let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re saying Hitler has created himself a self-perpetuating army of monsters?’
‘Yes, Sarge, and they’re heading our way,’ Stewart said ominously.
Phillips stood in the middle of the ice-cold cottage and tried to comprehend what he’d just been told. The building was deathly silent save for the whistling of the winter wind and the rumbling of a tank battle in the near distance.
6
Most of the population of Bastogne had fled when the siege had ended and the allies had opened a corridor of relative safety between the town and Assenois. Most of the population. Some had been unable to get away, others too scared to move until their hand was forced. Henri Mercel, who had, up until a couple of weeks ago, been a well-respected and oft-frequented tailor, ran through the rubble-strewn streets as if his life depended on it.
Because it did.
It had been such a foolish and unnecessary mistake to make, and now he cursed himself for having been so vain. Even after all the horror, brutality and bloodshed he’d witnessed here recently, he’d learnt nothing and had continued to give undue importance to his business and its associated frippery. And now it seemed his misguided approach was going to cost him everything.
When the dead army had begun to surge through the town, Marcel had initially run as fast as anyone, despite his rotund belly and short legs. But it had occurred to him that he’d left a good amount of money and numerous trinkets unguarded in his shop, including a valuable broach bequeathed to him by his recently deceased mother, and the thought of them falling into someone else’s hands – British, American, German or other – was intolerable. Against his better judgement he’d cut through an alleyway and doubled-back. He’d simply collect his belongings then disappear again. What was the worst that could happen?
Take the worst that could happen, and multiply it by a factor of several hundred.
Being caught in the cross-fire between the Nazis and the US soldiers defending Bastogne had been bad enough, but what had followed had been immeasurably worse.
The dead.
Hundreds of them, possibly even thousands. Foul, obnoxious, ill-mannered things, their numbers ever growing. Mercel had made it back to his tailor’s shop, but only by the slimmest of margins before the ungodly army had filled the street outside. The mass of dead flesh had clogged every escape route. He’d sunk to the ground behind the counter and covered his ears and screwed his eyes shut as the unnatural encroachment had continued. Their numbers had been such that they had blocked out almost all the light, leaving him more frightened than ever. Mother had always been there before to keep him company and help him cope with his irrational fear of the dark, but Mercel was completely alone now. And despite being in his late forties, he was resolutely terrified.
He’d remained curled up on the floor in a ball for hours. It might even have been longer than a day. It was only when an unavoidable call of nature forced him to get up and visit another part of the shop did he see that the street outside had all but emptied. Once his ablutions were complete he filled his pockets with the money and trinkets he’d risked his life for, took a deep breath, then left the shop and ran (as best he could).
It was cold outside, and the snow was falling heavily. The covering of white combined with the absolute ruination in parts of Bastogne to disorientate Mercel to such an extent that he headed in completely the opposite direction to that which he’d originally intended. His choice of direction was further limited by the great crowds of blood-stained and battle-worn Nazis which seemed to be on the periphery whichever way he turned.
At one point he found himself face-to-face with a fellow countryman who appeared to have been completely traumatised by the bloody chaos which had consumed the town. The man had been severely injured (his dust-covered trousers glistened with blood which continued to seep from a vicious-looking wound on his belly) and his shock was such that he couldn’t speak, could barely even focus his eyes on Mercel. ‘We must leave here, Monsieur,’ Mercel had said. ‘Can you help me get to Assenois? I can pay you…’
He’d shown the man a pocket full of francs, and the desperate fellow had made a sudden and unexpected lunge for Mercel’s cash. He’d gripped his arms with a dogged persistence which belied his moribund state, and Mercel had struggled to free himself. In the melee he’d slipped on ice then tripped over rubble and had been on his back with the wounded man bearing down on him before he’d known what was happening.
A priest came to his aid.
Father Jacques had elected to remain with his church despite the rest of the town being evacuated, and seeing the overweight tailor struggling in the snow with his assailant was proof positive that staying behind to care for the last few sheep of his flock had been absolutely the right thing to do. His vestments keeping him warm and a pair of hobnail boots keeping him safe, he strode out from the church with a heart full of God and the very best of intentions. When the man attacking Mercel had failed to respond to his requests to desist, Father Jacques put a hand under each of his shoulders and dragged him away.
The good Samaritan paid the ultimate price for his selfless act. The wounded man turned on the priest with predatory speed, reversing their position and slamming Jacques against the outside wall of his church before biting into his throat and crunching through his oesophagus, silencing his screams before they’d even begun.
Mercel was up and on his feet and running again before the priest was dead. He stumbled into a street so heavily bombed that he struggled to place it at all. A street name lying on the ground helped him fix his location, but the familiar view he associated with that name had been all but obliterated. There were gaps where there used to be buildings, like a mouthful of rotten teeth, and those homes and shops which still remained standing seemed to be doing so by the grace of God alone. Mercel fancied that if he was to lean too heavily against any one of them, the whole town might come crashing down around him.