HELL OF OUR OWN MAKING

 

Major Richard Blaine leads his Spartan 300 to a cursed French village 310 miles away from any other Allied troops. 

If anything goes wrong, they are on their own. Can anyone say "Custer's Last Stand?"

HELL OF OUR OWN MAKING

“The human soul is mysterious aswell as terrible. God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is theheart of man.”

– Helen Mayfair

 

“I didn’t sign up for this,”groaned Jace Mercer as he rearranged his pack for the thousandth time.

Johnny Knight, who had marchedbeside him all through Sicily, grunted, “You didn’t sign up period. You wasdrafted.”

“As you repeatedly reminded usall through boot camp,” snorted Eric Evans.

“Well, blazing summer sun andlong, dusty roads sure wasn’t what the enlistment posters promised,” insistedMercer.

“Kit” Carson snapped, “You weredrafted!”

Cpl. Wilson shook his head,

“And these woods have started tofeel more like October than summer ever since we rounded that bend back there.”

Dee Stevens shifted the weight ofhis own pack and looked to his friend,

“I just hope that when we reachthat spooky village of the Major’s, it doesn’t turn into Halloween.”

I called back to Dee,

“It’s not mine. It’s notanyone’s. Not since Oberführer Reinhardt played fast and loose with the Natural Order with his experiments.”

“Then, why are we going there?”muttered Taylor.

Since Evans hadn’t slugged him,he wanted to know, too. Merde, all of the Spartans probably did.

I listened a moment to thedisturbing things Sentient told me. 

I groaned inside. 

How was I going to phrasethat to men whose world had always made sense before they met me?

Simple. Start with survival,then, move on from there.

As furtive wild things rustled inthe mottled undergrowth, I said,

“There are … weapons there thatwe can use against the Nazi’s heading our way.”

“How do they even know about us,Major?” yelped Taylor, who promptly got slugged by Evans.

“They don’t. They were sent bythe German High Command to chastise König for disobeying direct orders. As oddas it may seem, there were some things too foul for even the SS.”

“How many does your DarkPassenger say?” asked Cloverfield.

“She didn’t give me an exactnumber. Just the name of the unit: SS Sonderkommando Dirlewanger.”

“Oh, bloody hell! Stones andBlood! Not them!”

“They’re that bad?” gulpedTaylor.

Cloverfield grunted,

“Bad doesn’t cover it, mate. Ledby Senior Colonel Dr. Oskar Dirlewanger, a violent alcoholic psychopath andmurderer. Many of the men in his brigade were common criminals and sadists withprior convictions for rape, murder, and even worse crimes.”

Cpl. Wilson whistled, “Worse thanrape and murder?”

Cloverfield nodded, 

 ”Having sex with the dead and forcing therelatives to watch qualifies in my book, mate. The brigade became so notoriousfor their atrocities in Poland and Byelorussia that even other senior SSofficers complained to Himmler.”

Amos, his face stone, husked,“And they’re headed here?”

Cloverfield turned to me. “Yousure there are weapons in that damned village we can use against them.”

“Yes.”

Theo stepped out of the ranks androared at the men, 

“You heard the Major and Cloverfield! Put some muscle to thehustle. March like your lives depended on it ‘cause it sounds like it does!”

They marched.

The fear of the men made oursurroundings blur in their minds obviously for the Spartans paid them no mind.

I, however, did pay them mind.

So, did André. 

He pulled backfrom beside me as if I were as diseased as the densely fungus-covered trees wepassed.

 He husked out one word as he glared at me.

“Megszállott!”

“Yes, I am possessed … just notin the way you think. Why do you hate me … and don’t bring up your lost love. Ihave one, too.”

He took his time answering.

It was morning when we startedout, but shadows lurked thick here. I had an uneasy feeling they were alwayshere no matter the time of day.

The trees grew too thickly, andtheir trunks were too thin and twisted for any healthy French woodland.

There was too much silence in thedim paths between them. Strange, deep-set tracks of cloven hooves dotted them. 

I had no desire to see where they led. My dark fears were too sure of theirdestination.

 The floor beneath my boots was soft with thedank moss and mattings of seemingly infinite years of decay.

Finally, André started to speaklow, putting a cigarette in the corner of his lips.

I snatched it out of his mouthand threw it into the woods. “Let’s not advertise our presence to any unseen….”

I stopped when a mottled, tinyhand shot out from the undergrowth and snatched up the unlit cigarette.

“Nicotine is a nasty habit,” Imanaged to get out.

He paled and rasped, “Átkozottvagy!”

“I do feel accursed. But that isnot why you hate me. Spill it.”

His dark spaniel eyes glitteredwith anger.

“I! I get to choose if … if! … Iplace myself in danger. No one else. I get to choose to be hero, to be coward!No one else! But, no! You pluck me from the deck of that ship where I wassafe.”

“You promised Life Magazineyou would go on Omaha Beach to photograph ….”

“Yes! I promised! Not you! Notyou! Now, those eleven photographs I gave my word to give them are not there.”

He pounded the camera hangingfrom his neck and froze, suddenly realizing it was not his old camera.

“Yes, Sentient kept your word foryou ….’’

He tapped my forehead roughlywith his right fingertips.

“Cseszd meg! There is noSentient. Only this … this diseased brain of yours.”

I shrugged. “No matter. Thoseeleven negatives are already on your editor’s desk.”

“I did not take them! They willnot have my style, my vision.”

“Your paycheck will still be all yours.”

“I will not have earned it!”

“How delightful,” mocked a voiceI had never wanted to hear again. “Cain and Abel arguing. I so missed it.”

Mr. Morton, hidden in the shadowsto my right, chuckled, “What took you so long? I was getting bored.”

His voice became hollow as ifspoken from a cavernous crypt. “And you know how dangerous I become whenbored.”

I turned.

An opening slowly formed in thevery shadows, blood oozing along its edges … as if he had torn a hole inreality itself … which was not beyond the entity I called Mr. Morton.

André husked, ”Nem, nem, solia!”

Mr. Morton laughed as if dry icehad been given voice and turned to me.

“Never say never. Isn’t that theinane rallying cry you have given the French Resistance?”

He continued to laugh in hisimmaculate, elegant SS uniform.

The portal abruptly closed.

Mr. Morton was gone. 

The steamingblood from reality’s wound, however, remained bubbling on the forest floor.

The shivers stayed, too.